Legend of Skyrim Book One: Sleeping Dragon
by HarryJustHarry
Summary: Thraun is the Dragonborn, he just doesn't know it yet. Years before the dragons returned to the world, he was a lad living in Cyrodiil with his mother and siblings. His father died fighting in the Great War. That's all his mother told him, anyways. Leaving a troubled past behind, Thraun returns to the Fatherland seeking redemption, and the skills to obtain the revenge he seeks...
1. Chapter 1: Out of the Fire

Book One: Sleeping Dragon

Chapter One: Out of the Fire  
Starving. He was starving. Disoriented, confused, scared, all those things, but starving was most prevalent. The only thing that bothered him more than his throbbing head and aching muscles were the pangs emanating from his stomach. Sure they'd beat him, stripped him of any dignity, took their whips and painfully adept magical hands to his back, but the meager amount of food they so graciously granted him was, by far, the worst part of his ordeal.  
The damned fools. All he had to do was mumble in the dark about nonsense for a few days and they let him loose. He wished he could've kicked his own ass for not thinking of it two years prior. Well...they probably wouldn't have fallen for it after just a few days then. Perhaps freedom now is as good as freedom any time.

But gods damn them. And gods damn the elves that killed his mother, and presumably his siblings as well. Gods, what time was it? What day was it? What season was it? He'd been held in a cellar for who knows how long, only allowed outside to be bathed and gawked at by his captors. 'Where the hell am I?' he thought. He stopped, for the first time realizing the thinness of the air, and the chill that now overwhelmed him. He wasn't wearing much more than rags. Nothing separated his feet from the earth, and his toes were starting to go blue. High peaks surrounded his path on all sides, and the skies above were turning grey, clouds looming overhead plump with unloosed snow. He wouldn't last the night before exposure took him. Fortunately, even through the clouds he could see the sun was still high in the sky. But that wouldn't matter if he didn't find clothes or shelter soon.

He then turned to see where he'd come from; to see how far he'd gone. The only mountains in Cyrodiil were the Jerrals on the border with Skyrim. Where the hell had he come from? He must've been miles away from anywhere relevant. He considered going back home, just to see what was left of it. If there were any clues left behind as to the fates of his siblings. But he banished the idea from his mind. It all came back to him in a wave of despair and anger. The knock, the drawing of weapons, the clank of metal on metal; the squish of metal into flesh. The fire, the smoke, the blood. It was all just something he couldn't run away from, something he could not forget. Something he saw every time he closed his eyes, as if it were painted on his eyelids.

No, he knew: there was nothing to go back to but a ruin, perhaps a scorched framework of what was once a happy home. Full of life and young ideas that never got to be. He hoped those responsible would spend an eternity aflame in the wastes of oblivion for their offenses. But he wasn't the type for sulking. No...no he would not allow the foul actions of a few cretins to forge the course of his life thereon out. That's not what his mother would want. Unlike most Nords, his mother was open minded. Not that there were many Nords to spend time around in Cyrodiil, but he got the gist from the stories his mother told him. He gathered that they were a proud and stubborn people, at home on land or in the water, but especially on the battlefield. Nords were fighters, and he was proud to count himself among them. And in this cold, he was very thankful the blood of Atmora was flowing through him. Any other race might've frozen by now.

She taught him many things. Despite her best efforts, he grew up as much a Nord as anyone back home. Same temper, same stubborn pride, same fighting spirit. She tried to raise him better, but her pleading he denied. Oh well, at least she tried. But it was that fighting spirit that kept him going through his waking nightmare. He much preferred farming and heaving a sword in his hand to learning. But despite his best efforts to the contrary, he became educated. If it was raining or his mother had to tend to one of his siblings and couldn't train with him, he would read. It was this willingness to learn and become better that set him apart.

He grew up in the shadows of the mountains now surrounding him. His mother, a lady of many talents, built their home when he was young. Old enough to remember its construction, but too young to help. It was an unassuming little cottage, single floor of stone, a fireplace and chimney at one end, a dining table in the middle, and beds for himself and his siblings at the other end. They farmed for a living, and what the couldn't make for themselves, they purchased in Bruma, just up the road. By the age of 7, he was out plowing with his mother, who balanced guiding the ox in one hand and holding his little sister in the other. By age 12, he was out hunting while his mother looked after his siblings. By age 16, he'd been admitted into the Imperial legion as an Auxiliary after beating his recruiter in a duel. The older soldier scoffed at the idea that someone half his age could best him, but shut up after he was disarmed and pinned to the ground. By age 17, he was a Praefect well on his way to becoming Legate.

That's when his trouble started. The Legates around him started asking for favors; telling him to look the other way when they broke protocol. Their lackadaisical behavior became more and more apparent to him the more he was around them. They'd shove off duties to underlings or neglect entire days of work in favor of drinking or whoring. In fact, they were rarely where they were supposed to be. He came to find out they had been dealing with Thalmor Justiciars behind closed doors for profit.

In reality, he had uncovered a secret plot by the Thalmor to assassinate the Emperor. The Thalmor had been buying secrets from the corrupt Legates, who requested that their lives be spared when the Thalmor invade the city once again. Upon realizing his plan, he informed the Legate commanding him of what he had witnessed, completely unaware that he was involved in the scandal as well. The Legate used his ignorance against him. He thanked him for his insight, and declared him a hero, seeing as this information would save the Emperor's life. He gave him a two week furlough to return home and see his family, giving him time to formulate a plan to exterminate him. Seeing as it would be suspicious to have five Legates leave the Imperial City in the dead of night, he had only two options in dealing with the boy.

He could hire the Dark Brotherhood, which was out of the question. More plausible, when the Thalmor returned with another shipment of smuggled goods, he would inform them of this rat, and they would deal with him. When it was nearly time for him to return to the Imperial City, they struck. The boy happened to be away hunting in the hills surrounding his house, and wasn't there to be captured. He heard the commotion from far off, first the breaking of glass, then a wail of agony coming from a voice he did not know, yet emanated from a familiar direction. He came back over the hill, and saw his mother fearlessly defending heir home against five hooded elven soldiers. She'd already killed one of them.

He took aim and fired, hitting one of the fiends in his back, dropping him. His mother stopped briefly to pinpoint the direction from which the arrow came, and her eyes proudly rested upon her son. And in an instant, that pride was extinguished. It fell upon an elven blade, an axe brought down deeply into her back. Oh the scream that erupted from the boy then. Right then, his path changed forever. He ran to her defense, to no avail. Two lightning bolts and a flash of green later he was on the ground, seizing. The suddenly, unable to move, still aware of everything that was happening around him, but unable to do anything.

He watched from the ground as two of the elves entered his home, came out a few moments later inaudibly uttering something to his superior. After a moment the elf nodded, commanding the other elves to do this and that. One chained the doors, the others took positions around the house. He watched as they spewed arcane fire from their hands, burning all that was good in his young life to cinders. He shouted every imaginable offense he could think of at the elves. At last one came and kicked him in the head. That was his last taste of freedom before waking up in chains in what dank chasm they declared his cell.

And now here he was, free at last, with no where to go and no where to be. He could never return to the Imperial Legion: they'd just try to off him again. He figured he was presumed dead anyways. A return would provide a humorous shock, but it was too dangerous. No; there was nothing left for him in Cyrodiil. So he turned and trudged ever forward on the cold and snowy stone path, each footfall more painful than the last. He was growing weaker. He felt it. His vision was blurring, his feet were becoming heavy, and his breaths were sharp and stung like icicles in his lungs. But some force beyond his human will was compelling him ever onward, to a place unknown, and a fate even more uncertain.

Only he did know, at least, he had a plan. He has an idea of where this path took him, and hoped his guess would be true. It was getting later now: he'd been walking for hours now. His heart lifted when he saw what he had only heard of in stories: the great fortress of Pale Pass, now in ruins from centuries of weathering and neglect. It was in such a state of disrepair that it looked like it'd blow over with the next big gust of wind. He knew he had to be careful. On the Serpents Trail it was common to come across bears or other carnivorous creatures. It was no stretch to think that a bear could make these ruins its home. But after passing and finding none, he assumed an eager pace, unwilling to prowl about and be preyed upon by a beast may times his strength.

And then he saw it, like sun shinning off the rippling water, it caught his eye, beaming at him. The northernmost gates of Cyrodiil. Through those heavy wooden doors he crossed the border into a new life. All the pain was forgotten; all that was ahead was what he made it. The storm had broken over the mountains, revealing a beautiful sunset, Masser just nearly able to be glimpsed rising over the Throat of the World in he dying light. But he didn't know that. To him it was the moon rising over a big mountain.

He didn't enjoy the view long before his vision blackened and his knees gave out. High altitude, freezing air, and lack of nourishment had finally gotten the better of him. He tried to rouse himself, but his strength was barely enough to raise his head and look at the horizon. Most fortunate he did: out of the haze appeared a figure, obscured by the boy's own vision. Two hounds walked with him, and he walked with a long, thin stick. He looked at the boy in a heap, now cradling his own chest for warmth. The man looked at him with disgust, and blurted, "You will not die here, boy. Up the road a ways is a settlement. There you can take refuge." He prodded him with his stick a few times, before getting really irritated. He shouted this time, "Now get up, and WALK!" He threw his stick down on the boy, hard, finally waking him up. The boy saw no man however when he came to, just a long, thin stick on the ground before him, and a bird flying away towards the mountain.

Hello Readers: This is my very first attempt at fanfiction. I've been compiling my own personal lore to appear in later stories, for probably three years now. In that time, I've complied some 80,000+ words occupying almost a hundred pages on my computer, including dialogue, characters, weapons, story arcs, battles, events, even new shouts or other powers. I've invested a lot of my time in this series, which I love. I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.


	2. Chapter 2: A New Home

Chapter Two: A New Home

He had found the strength to rise, but every step was in agony. He didn't have the wherewithal to think of a specific place; he just needed to get himself out of this cold. Night had fallen, and the temperature was dropping by the minute. By fortune he walked past a bandit-occupied fortress completely unnoticed , but noticed the sign that read, 'Helgen,' and followed the direction it pointed. He could no longer discern if he was walking on stone path or frozen ground. He likely strayed a bit into both: he staggered nigh every step. When he came upon the last bit of the downhill stretch into the eastern gate of Helgen, he just collapsed, tumbling uncontrollably the rest of the way. His unconscious body came to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

A guard saw the commotion and called for aid, running to the boy now limp and frigid, growing ever paler. The two took him into the keep and wrapped him in furs, letting him sleep and hopefully recover by the warmth of the fire. A few of the soldiers posted there had some degree of restoration skill, but a proper healer wouldn't be available to see him until tomorrow. For now all they could do was let him be and hope.

His dreams were terrifying that night. It was like they called on a familiar fear, but many of the people and places he saw in that moment he had never seen before. He felt in danger, and knew there was nothing he could do but let events unfold. Grey clouds swirled overhead, and he stood atop a high peak as rocks on fire fell unceasingly from the sky. Roars erupted all around him from sources unseen and unknown.

One sounded greatest above the others, and deafened the boy. He turned to look in the sound's direction, only to view an immense black figure blotting out the sun and diving headlong and impossibly fast in his direction. He could only watch as a vast bout of fire enveloped him, causing him to bolt upright and stir from his slumber.

He was shaking and sweating; the blankets and fire combined did little to warm him. This was a cold unlike any he had ever felt. This cold emerged from his fear, and would only subside when he was no longer afraid. But after a nightmare like that, how could he be? The pain was real: he felt every blow and heard every sound. Nothing yet alive could come close to replicating it. A voice from behind roused him from his thought. It was only then that he realized he was shivering uncontrollably. The person who spoke then came fully into view and grabbed hold of him, looking him dead in the eye.

"Snap out of it, lad. It was only a dream. You have nothing to fear. You're safe now.

"Where am I?" The boy croaked, barely above a whisper. The cold air had not been very kind to his throat.

The man replied, "You are in Helgen. You're lucky I saw you fall out there or we might've only just found your corpse this morning. What were you doin' out in the cold anyways? At night no less? Don't you know Skyrim nights are not the friendliest?"

The boy replied a bit louder this time, "I'm afraid I didn't."

Though puzzled by what the boy said, the guard shrugged off his seemingly brash attitude and went on.

"My name is Huld, if you need anything. Take your time to rest. When you're up to it, I set a plate on your table and I put that walking stick by the bedpost if you feel like taking a stroll. I also brought you a basket in case you feel the urge. The healer came by this morning and slipped some kind of elixir down your gob. Said it might make ya feel a tad queasy. I've got to get back to my patrols. Take a look around if you're feelin' better."

The man gave him a curt nod and left. The boy lay back down and brought his hand to his throbbing head. He couldn't believe he was alive. He was in pain and felt like he could vomit any minute, but he was alive nonetheless. Speaking of..

He leaned over and heaved a long retch into the basket his savior had left for him. He was surprised there was anything at all with the emptiness of his stomach. After wiping his mouth with his hand, he raised his head back up to see a familiar man sitting on the bed across from him, peering at him with an austere mien. The boy spoke first.

"You again?" He said, more confused than anything.

"Me," was all he offered.

"I have no idea who you are. Why are you here?"

"Where else should I be? Do you know? Neither do I. I may be here today or there tomorrow. It doesn't mean I know why. I just am."

"That wasn't much of an answer."

"Then forgive me. I haven't taken an apprentice in a long time. My master tells me that you are in need of guidance. Gods do you look it.

"Forgive me for being rude, but-"

"Oh yes yes, Thalmor captivity and the like. Yes I know. No need to sulk about it."

"How do you know about that? I've only been liberated a day."

"As I said, my teacher informed me. He works in mysterious ways. Ways I often despise. But he has never steered me astray. And now he's steered me in your direction, to teach you."

"I don't need teaching. What I need is to get out of here and find the bastards that killed my family and slit their throats."

The old man only shook his head and looked at the ground, holding the bridge of his nose with his right hand and his staff leaning on his left shoulder. He looked to the ceiling and uttered a barely audible "Talos" and went on.

"Boy have you got a long ways to go."

"What are you talking about?"

"Now it makes sense why he sent me to you. Can't have you getting killed before your thirtieth winter."

"What's so important about my thirtieth?"

"I have no idea. It's the years prior that will be your test, and it's the years following that will be your answer."

"Will you stop speaking in these backwards riddles?! Just…just answer me one question."

The old man looked on, expectantly.

"Who are you" he at last questioned. Despite meeting him twice, he didn't know who he was, why they had met, or how he know who and where he was.

"I go by many names. Vagabond, hermit. The Khajiit call me claw-tongue. The wood elves call me tree herder. The dragons simply called me teacher. In some cultures I am legend. But I assure my intention was never to be renowned. My expectation was to die many centuries ago. And while I can honestly say that expectation was met, it was exceeded far beyond anything you or I could ever imagine. I died…but I came back. I was sent back, really. Until my mission is complete."

"What mission?"

"You. It has been revealed to me that all the countless years I endured agelessly in this world were towards teaching you. Everyone before you was merely practice. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I failed. But with you, my teacher will reveal nothing. Your future is as much a mystery to me as it is to you

"What you have told me, of yourself that is, is nominal. Hermit, teacher, these are all titles. What is your name?"

It took him a moment to come up with it, as if he was feeling around for it in his head. His eyes dropped to the floor, shifting left and right as he thought.

"Odin. That is what they used to call me. Odin the wise wanderer, always teaching about the virtues of the nine. Odin the Wise...that was my name."

"Odin the Wise? I heard stories of the traveling shapeshifter. And now I know it wasn't only a legend.

"Yes. And you would be wise to listen to me. I am as great as my fame portrays me. I can persuade the very wise and daunt the dim folk. I can have power over the minds of others if I choose. Even if I fail my apprentice, I retain that power. The only person who can withhold it from me is he who grants me this power. I may yet relinquish it should I succeed in training you. Until then, you will listen to me."

"Look, I still have no idea who you are. I appreciate your sentiment, but I have better things to do than be schooled by an old man. If you want to help me, point me in the direction of a job. I need coin to buy new weapons and armor."

The man heaved a small sigh, but seemingly relented to the boy's whim.

"You're too young to be so angry. Don't scoff, I understand the impulse better than you think. But you must not be ruled by a cruel heart. A man compelled by a vengeful spirit will find his doom too early. However, seeing as my master has made not attempt to otherwise hinder my efforts, I will help you. There is a man here in the city. He is the blacksmith in Riverwood, a Nord village up the road a ways from here. He can set you on the path you seek. Understand, lad: the path you choose is the one I put you on. Don't forget it. I have no doubt that we'll see each other again soon."

With that, he got up and patted the boy on the shoulder before taking his staff and walking out of the keep. The boy grunted and stood up himself, groggily pacing towards the closed exit. He found no trace of his supposed mentor upon opening the door. The sunlight was blinding, but the warmth was a welcome change to the dim and cool keep.

He wandered around until he saw a man in a carriage loaded with metal and tools. He wore a red shirt and black apron over a simple pair of brown pants (obviously the attire of a blacksmith). He didn't know whether to be proud or concerned. On the one hand he was seemingly adhering to some small facet of a master plan that would ultimately shape the course of his entire future. On the other hand he felt he was a pawn being played with by powers he could not control; abstract ideas like faith and destiny that he didn't strictly believe in. Plus, it seemed as if the choice was his own, but wasn't at the same time. The choice was before him and it was his to make, but the opportunity was produced for him, not by him. If anything else, he was curious to see if the old man was right, and was eager to call him on his tripe when next he saw him. He approached the man rigidly and sheepishly asked,

"Excuse me, sir, do you know the way to Riverwood?"

The man looked up and replied through his brown beard, "You new to Skyrim, kinsman?"

"'Fraid so. I spent the night here after crossing in from Cyrodiil and I'm looking to make some coin. Do you know of anyone offering jobs?"

The man looked at him puzzled, but at the same time in another way entirely. The boy couldn't place it. He just stood there awkwardly awaiting a reply as the older Nord peered into him, stroking his beard, clearly deep in contemplation. At last he grunted and replied.

"I'm looking for an apprentice to work the smithy. You'll learn to forge your own weapons and armor, and how to improve what you already have. It's laborious work and it doesn't pay much, but I can offer you free accommodations. A 40% cut of every piece of armor you produce and sell if I provide the raw materials, and a bed and meals while you're there. If you provide the raw materials, you can keep whatever you earn from your sales. That's the best I can offer, lad. Take it or leave it.

It wasn't exactly what he was looking for. He would really have preferred to just pay for the arms and armor and be on his way. But this was the best offer he'd heard, literally, in years. It would also be nice knowing how to repair or replace whole sets of armor or weapons, without having to go through a middle man.

"I accept your offer, thank you. When will we be off?" The boy asked in anticipation.

"I'm nearly finished here. I'm just waiting on my nephew. He's speaking with a recruiter for the Imperial Legion at the moment. He's supposed to be bringing me some more of my tools. He shouldn't be too much longer."

The boy cringed at the mention of the Legion. They'd haul him back to Cyrodiil to hang if they found him here, he just knew it. From behind him, he heard an authoritative voice boom, "...and auxiliary, welcome to the Legion.

"Thank you, sir," a younger voice responded. He was tall, and Nord in every way but the hair, which beamed against his pale skin. The smith introduced him as he walked over.

"This is my nephew, Hadvar. Hadvar, this is, erm…I never asked your name, lad?"

"Thraun. My name's Thraun."

Thraun extended his hand in greeting, debating if he had not just made a serious mistake. A name could mean life or death if the wrong people were looking. And he caught Hadvar looking at his arm. Aside from being overall filthy, he had red marks along both wrists form where he'd been chained for too many years. He wasn't sure if the scars would ever go away. Thraun extricated his hand, and Hadvar looked him in the eye and smiled.

"Welcome to Skyrim, kinsman. I don't guess you've ever been to Riverwood?"

He was taken aback by the friendly demeanor with which the two were interacting with him. 'Kindness' was not a virtue he had experienced much of late. The feeling must've shown on his face.

"Are you alright, lad?" Alvor inquired.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he offered, snapping back to reality. "No, I've never been to Riverwood. Nor any other part of Skyrim, for that matter. You'll have to show me around town once we arrive."

Alvor interjected, "Well, after we return home and I've shown you to your lodgings, feel free to roam. I'll introduce you to my wife and we'll have a big supper tonight to celebrate our guest. We'll also see if we can't find you some new clothes. Wouldn't want you working around hot metal in nothin' but rags. Sound fair enough?"

For the first time a while, Thraun smiled. The prospect of a good meal and a warm bed sounded like the best gift anyone could offer.

"That sounds perfect," he said. He had never been so grateful for an offer so simple.


	3. Chapter 3: Ill Met by Moonlight

'Up the road a ways,' Thraun thought. The old man must've underestimated the vastness of Skyrim. Distances must be relative when there are so few places to go in a land so vast. They'd been traveling all day without seeing so much as another person, much less a group or village. According to Alvor, they were still a day-and-a-half from Riverwood. Sleeping on the road was an absurd pipe dream; a loose stone in the road here and there on the rickety axels of the wagon made sure he was not getting any rest. Thraun sat in the wagon beside Alvor, and Hadavar rode alongside them on his horse. Milley was her name, apparently. A lovely mare with a simple brown coat, and a distracting white bald running the length of her face. The sun was approaching the horizon, and Alvor decided it was time to make camp.

They stopped beside the road, in a grassy patch surrounded by a fallen log and four massive evergreens. They were perched beside a waterfall overlooking a pool and subsequent river flowing onward into a massive lake that Thraun could not see the end of. It was truly serene: The sun shone on the glittering waters like millions of sapphires, their constant flow a soothing hum, accompanied by the breeze through the trees. He had never felt so free, even as a child in the woods back in Cyrodiil. He and Hadvar collected wood for a fire while Alvor attempted fishing in the White River. Living isolated as he did was not a boon to his conversation skills, and being cooped up in an eight-by-ten cell for years leaves something to be desired in the way of current events.

"So how'd you get those marks on your wrists?" Hadvar inquired suddenly.

Thraun was taken aback. "What?" he responded sheepishly, acting as though he had no idea what he was talking about.

"The scars on your wrists. I may be from an isolated hamlet, but I'm no fool. I know shackle burns when I see them, and they don't put people in shackles for good behavior."

"I don't want to talk about how I got them…not right now. You wouldn't understand."

"Maybe you don't, and maybe I wouldn't. But my aunt and uncle are good people. Honest and charitable people. Better people than most of what you'll find in this world. They're letting you into their home, under their roof. Where their newborn babe sleeps. It's as much my home as well. So the least you can do is tell me if you're dangerous."

He hardly had to think about it.

"Aye, I'm dangerous. Very dangerous."

"Then why in the name of all the gods should we let you under our roof?"

Thraun was irritated by now. He'd spent so much time around elves that he forgot how much even people could be self righteous. But he answered as truthfully as he could.

"I can't tell you why, but I can promise you that I'm not a threat, and would honor your space and privacy as best as I can. Your uncle is the first person to show me kindness in a long time. I would never forsake that."

"For your sake, I hope you're being truthful," he stated grimly. The walk back to the wagon was understandably quiet.

The night cooled quietly, and the three men sat closely around the meager warmth of their campfire. Alvor hadn't had much luck with the fishing, only hooking two. They'd had some bread and potatoes that they'd brought with them from Helgen, and Alvor even pulled out a few bottles of mead to ease the tension. Thraun's exposure to alcohol was limited under his mother, having only ever had wine on occasion, and a bit of ale even more rarely. But he took to it like a true Nord.

They spoke little, Alvor and Hadvar talking about life at home or upcoming events and chores in their lives. More to each other than to Thraun. He'd rather to listen and muse quietly, taking in the conversation rather than infiltrating it. It must've been the soldier in him; he sparsely spoke unless spoken to. Indeed, he would have stared at the fire or at the sky or pulled every blade of grass from the soil long before starting a conversation. Alvor moved to break his concentration.

"Cyrodiil huh? What were you doing in the south?"

Thraun had not been broken from his rapture on the first attempt. It was only after a second attempt and having an apple thrown his way did he respond.

"Pardon?"

"I asked what you were doing in the south? Why were you in Cyrodiil?" Alvor repeated.

"I was raised there," he began. "We lived in a small cottage in the Jeralls. My mother and father were both from Skyrim, and we lived in Whiterun for a time, when I was knee high to a grasshopper. My father died when I was very young. I don't remember much of him. After his death, she packed us all up, my siblings and me, and we moved to northern Cyrodiil. 'About as close to home without actually being there', she would always say. I never knew what she meant until…" He trailed off, still unwilling to voice the atrocity made against his family. The pain was too visceral. He did not want to speak of it at all, least of all to a stranger.

"Until?" The smith persisted.

"Erm, until uh…she died a few years back. Even until her death, she never told me why," he struggled to come up with a lie, but it was convincing enough.

"I'm sorry, lad. Is that what brought you to Skyrim?"

"Aye. I left my siblings in the care of a neighbor who lived up the road from us. I told them that I would be back for them, once I had saved up enough gold to pay for food and lodgings for the three of us. They assured me they would take good care of them."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy to leave them," Hadvar offered sympathetically. "I'm an orphan as well. My parents both died in the Great War, same as your Pa. My aunt and uncle took me in, raised me as their own. I'm ever so grateful."

"Alright, that's enough of that lad," Alvor muttered.

"I just wanted him to know the type of people you were," he spoke, giving Thraun a wary glance. Thraun understood caution better than most, but he still couldn't fathom why he was continually being so abrasive. He had given no hint, no notion whatsoever that he might harm or betray them in any way.

"Aye. They must be good people indeed, to take in someone they've never met, and perhaps don't even like all that much. And to take me in as well," Thraun jested, the first joke he had made in two years. Hadvar grew red in the face and glowered at Thraun, but Alvor chuckled at the quip, apparently sensing the true feelings Hadvar had and tried to make light of them.

"I just always figured the gods reward a charitable soul," Alvor explained. "You'll be good for something one day I'm sure. And I bet you will be too, Hadvar."

The two of them laughed outright at that, and Hadvar came around as well, letting a smile form where there once was a frown. Thraun was glad to remember humor, even after what he'd been through. When their laughter died down, Alvor continued to delve.

"So when did you come to Skyrim, exactly?"

"I crossed the border last night. I remember collapsing; I hadn't eaten in a few days and the air is so thin in the mountains. The last thing I recall was tumbling down the hill before getting knocked out at the bottom. It just so happened that I was right outside Helgen's westernmost gate"

Alvor and Hadvar looked at each other, both appearing baffled. Hadvar questioned first.

"You mean to say that you walked from the southern border to Helgen in a single night, without having any food or drink?"

"Aye?" Thraun didn't understand his confusion. He thought he'd been abundantly clear.

"And you remember nothing else?" he continued.

"Well, I remember walking a little ways after I collapsed the first time. But I was delirious. It was a miracle the guards happened to see me."

"No, it's a miracle you made it a mile north of the gate in the condition you were in."

"I suppose I'm just lucky, I-"

"I don't mean it's a miracle you survived." Alvor interrupted. "Do you know how far Helgen is from the southern border?"

"A few miles?" Thraun guessed. "I couldn't really offer an accurate guess from how disoriented I was."

"No, lad. Helgen…is more than a hundred miles form the southern border."

Now Thraun was the one who didn't understand.

"What? No, that can't be right. That's not possible…"

"Aye, it's impossible that anyone could make that distance in a day. But you did. Now I don't know what brought you to me, but I believe that you're meant for more than swinging a hammer at my forge. I suppose only time will tell."

That was something to think about. How in Oblivion does one travel a hundred miles in a day. Less than a day. In a night…while unconscious! Could someone have picked me up along the way? Well, if someone did, it was awfully discourteous to drop him back in the snow, he thought. Even on horse, it would be more than a day's ride at that distance on even ground. It'd be even longer through snow drifts and mountainous terrain. He didn't have much time to ponder it before the horses began to stir.

They became restless, snorting and rearing, fighting their restraints, and neighing frantically, intimating to a threat unseen. Alvor and Hadvar rose to calm them, while Thraun closed out the noises, listening for anything that didn't sound like a horse. The rustling of a bush caught his immediate attention, and he felt more naked now without a sword than all the months he'd spent in captivity. He could finally fight his threats, but he had no weapon to do so.

Out of the bushes beside the road emerged six men, armed with iron forged weapons and lightly armored in furs or hide. They were all dirty, and if the wind were less favorable, Thraun imagined he would be able to smell them as well. Alvor and Hadvar were still preoccupied with the horses and hadn't noticed them yet. It wasn't until one of them rapped on the wood of the wagon with his dagger that he garnered their attention.

"Good evenin', gentlemen," the tapper spoke. Thraun assumed he was the leader. "Nice night for a campin' trip, eh? You thought…Anyhow, we'll be takin' your horses. You won't need 'em, will ya? I mean Riverwood is just…sixty or seventy miles down the road. Should be there before Loredas." For the record, it was currently Tirdas.

Thraun was the only one it seemed who's voice was still functioning.

"You do know they hang horse thieves, don't you?"

"That a fact? Well, I don't think they'll be hangin' us, seein' as you're miles from the nearest settlement. We'll be long gone before you reach it."

"They won't be coming after you, because I'm going to kill you, here and now."

The leader scoffed at that.

"I like you, boy. You're not afraid to waggle your tongue unlike the couple of cockless bastards you keep for company. So tell you what, you give up your horses, and we let you all go."

"May seem like a fair trade to you," Thraun caustically admitted, "but these horses and these men are my passage to a new life. You won't be taking anything from them."

The bandit's ugly-faced grin faded to a scowl, irritated at the boy's ungratefulness for his proposal."

"We are six armed men. We could kill you without a second thought and take your damn horses, and we're letting you walk away from here."

"Turn around, and I'll let you walk away from here," Thraun countered.

Alvor interrupted before the leader could speak again (or more accurately, before he could order his men to kill them all).

"Thraun, look around you. We're outnumbered, and unarmed. Don't kill us all."

"You ought to listen to your passage, boy. He's speaking sense."

"I'm not going to kill us all. I'm going to kill them all," Thraun stated.

"And how are you going to do that without any weapons, hm?" the leader questioned.

"I don't need weapons to kill you."

They all had a good laugh at that.

"Aye," he spoke, still working to pacify himself, "but I bet they'd help."

When he realized Thraun did not appear to be joking, he stopped treating the boy's confidence like a joke.

"Are you too stupid to realize you're outmatched?"

Thraun remained composed, "Quite the opposite. Oh, I'm sure none of you are very intelligent, so I'll speak slowly. If you possessed any sort of sense," he walked over to the wagon, and grabbed Hadvar's new Imperial sword, unsheathing it before his audience, "you would have stopped me before I got hold of this weapon. You should've at least tried to kill me before I even got to the wagon. Indeed if you were smart you would've put an archer up on one of the hills with a line of sight into our camp. And if you were smart, you would have killed me outright, instead of allowing me to engage you in a verbal debate to buy time. Now I know what weapons you all possess, the weak spots in your armor, who among you is a brute and who among you is swift. I now know how I'm going to kill you all."

By now, the bandit had grown tired of his words.

"Ralok, kill him, and bring me his tongue. I wanna shove it up his arse when you're done."

The largest of them, an Orc brute, came charging at him, axe raised high above his head. Thraun held his sword in his left hand, ready for the strike. It came down, whirling closer and closer. Not yet; not until it was right on top of him. And when he was ready, he stepped ever so slightly to his left, dodging the strike. He turned and struck the Orc across the face with his right hand, then thrust Hadvar's new sword into his ribs. He grabbed hold of his battle axe and smacked him in the face with the handle: he was dead.

The second charged from his left, swinging wildly down, eager to end the life of the new threat. Thraun brought his sword up to parry the blow. Using the axe to trap the blade, he brought the bandit's arm down with the sword, exposing his neck. A fleeting slash across the throat and his life was extinguished.

Alvor and Hadvar had picked up weapons now and were holding their own against the other two bandits while the leader watched. A third bandit rushed Thraun, wielding a sword and shield. He swung wide, which Thraun parried with his left hand, and attempted a bash with his shield. Thraun extended his right and stopped it with the axe. He used the tongue to push the shield down, exposing his torso. He brought his sword down across his neck, and back up again across his abdomen, then used the axe like a fist and bashed him under his jaw onto his back.

He heard a thud, and turned to see Alvor about to be skewered. Twisting rapidly, he plunged the spike of the axe deep into the bandit's ribs and slashed him across the back of his knees, dropping him. An arm around the neck and a sickening "crack" later resulted in one less bandit. Hadvar was getting bested as well, it seemed. He was blocking the bandit's strikes easy enough, but it was obvious he had no true form, no real idea of how to beat his opponent. No tactic. Thraun solved his problems: he wrapped his arm around the bandit's sword hand just before he was going to bury it into Hadvar's chest, and plunged his sword deep into his back. The bandit exhaled whatever air was in his lungs, and labored briefly to bring a bit back in, for naught. He died on Thraun's sword, and his body slumped to the ground once it was extricated from his spine.

"You alright?" he questioned.

A feeble nod was all Hadvar could manage before running behind the wagon and spewing the fish they'd eaten all over the ground, the bandit's blood still freshly splattered on his face. Thraun grimaced, but understood the urge. When he had regained his composure, he spoke to Thraun.

"What was it you said you did in Cyrodiil again?"

"I was a soldier," he stated flatly.

"Oh, and a good one I'd imagine," he added.

Thraun frowned at that, "Not as good as they would've liked."

He returned his attention to the men he'd killed. He was going to gather them together and place them on the wagon, so as not to frighten anyone who travelled the road by seeing five corpses strewn about a campground. But something caught his eye. He began shuffling around, counting each of the bodies. He counted them once, then again, and a third time. Alas, he couldn't shake the uneasiness.

Alvor sat up, squinting over the fire and rubbing the back of his head.

"What's the matter?"

"There were six of them," Thraun stated. "Six bandits, and I only count five bodies."

"Their leader-the talker-bolted once he was outnumbered," Hadvar responded.

"I'm goin' after him."

"Thraun no, just leave it! No sense in getting killed over one coward," suggested Alvor. He thought it was a fool's errand to attempt tracking in the dark.

"If I let him go, he might come back in the night while we sleep and slit our throats," he explained. "I need to end the threat, or we won't be safe. And I don't need your permission. Keep a weather eye open. I should be back before dawn."

He passed through the trees on the road the way they came, looking for only one he hadn't killed.

Hello readers. As you can tell, I've scaled up Skyrim's size to make the story more epic. After all, in game Skyrim is only 15 square miles or something like that. It just doesn't seem fair that such a fantastical story has to be confined to an area smaller than New York City (much smaller, actually). I've attempted to scale it to where the north south distance is approximately 900 miles, and the east/west distance is about 1200 miles. I also wanted to explain why this chapter ended so abruptly. It was orignially my intention to combine this chapter and the next in a much shorter sequence of events. But ideas came to me and I ran with them. The final product would've been too long for a single chapter, so I divided it into two. Hope you enjoyed this one and enjoy all the chapters to come!


	4. Chapter 4: New Friends and Old

It only took ten minutes of searching to realize that his pursuit was most likely a dead end, but he kept at it. It was very possible that he wasn't even headed in the right direction. Why he bothered to spend so much time searching was known only to himself. He decided it might be best to return to the campsite to check on Alvor and Hadvar.

The duo was soundly asleep when he returned, and he had to roll his eyes. Their assailant could've walked by at any moment and offed them without a fight. He couldn't reckon how they could be so careless, especially Hadvar, who'd been eying Thraun suspiciously since the moment they'd met. One might think at least a parcel of that skepticism would carry over to someone who had actually tried to kill him, but evidently not. No amount of motivation can hold up against tired eyes.

This rang true for Thraun as well: his body wailed for sleep and his exhausted mind was not keen to argue. He climbed up onto the seat of the wagon, placed the sheathed sword between his crossed arms with his hand on the hilt, and allowed the rest he craved to find him.

He walked through a hall to a dimly lit room with shelves full of volume after volume. A table was in the center surrounded by four men with a map placed on its surface, and a wash basin stood beside the fireplace. An enchanter's station was in the far corner, resting underneath shelves and shelves of soul gems. Torches were lit around the room, and no light shone through the dark windows. He moved hurriedly to the men and slammed a book down loudly on the tabletop.

"What are you doing here?" the first man spoke. He was an elf, an Altmer. Shor's bones, they all were! Where was he?

The words he spoke were not his own, nor was the voice with which he spoke them.

"We need to talk," he said. "Now, if you please, and alone is for the best."

The one among them Thraun reckoned to be the leader acknowledged his request. He wore a white robe with a grey sash and a flowing deep green cloak. It was edged in a deep grey, and swirling gold moved throughout its entirety.

"Leave us." he commanded.

The other three elves backed away from the table, bowed, and moved for the door. Thraun, or whoever Thraun was currently occupying for the moment, shut the door after them and locked it.

"What do you want?" the elf spoke.

Thraun felt his brow furrow at his peer's tone.

"Naarfin, he has survived."

"Who?" he questioned.

"Who do you think? Who did we burn that damn temple to kill? He wasn't even there!"

Naarfin shrugged at the revelation.

"It makes no difference. I have heeded your advice as planned. The purge has already begun here in Summerset, and my assassins left a week ago sailing for Valenwood. Our plan is moving ahead as scheduled."

"The plan will mean nothing if Wuulfarth is allowed to survive. Our success is predicated on his downfall."

"What's the fate of a single man against an empire?"

"Everything, if we do not act. He has a son. He needs to be dealt with as well."

"Winning the war to come is priority now, not murdering babes. His time will come. For now, I must marshal my strength and prepare our campaign. That is what we were doing before you interrupted us."

"If what you say is true, that victory in this war is paramount, then it has to be now! If you put this off, his son will grow and he will become strong. I showed you the book-"

"Yes, you showed me the book," he interrupted, "and the fatidic scribbles of the madmen you keep in your company are no concern of mine. You should not place so much value on prophecy. They are words. Words are nothing without action. Focus on what you know, the enemy that you see before you. Kill him first, and the rest will follow."

"You might kill tens or hundreds of thousands of men, but it will matter if you don't kill Wuulfarth and his heirs."

"Why do you place so much stock in one man?" he questioned. "He is not the savior of Tamriel. The final sign hasn't emerged yet. For all we know it won't happen for a thousand years. What we're about to do will not divide them, it will unify them. If anything, we're further delaying the destruction of our world. That will buy us more time to find this man, Wuulfarth, and destroy his line."

"You must swear to me, Naarfin. Swear that you will take him seriously. He is not like any of the other Blades you're hunting down. I have never seen a fighter like him."

The elf exhaled an exasperated sigh.

"I will send my best mercenaries to find him. If he's not already dead as you seem to think, he soon will be."

"We're talking about one of the most skilled warriors in all of Tamriel, and you send hired thugs to kill him?"

"These are highly trained killers, Ulundir. You need not worry."

"You should worry, Naarfin. Even if they're able to track him down, it's more than likely they won't be able to kill him. When he came to the Blades he was already well trained in many forms of combat with many weapons. He's an expert marksman and a keen tracker. In fact, if he even got a whiff that anyone was looking for him, he probably hunted them down first. So forgive me, but until I see his head on a pike in front of me, I'm going to worry. This man is ruthless. He is loyal to his friends and despises treachery. If he finds out about our little scheme, then Auriel preserve us. And believe me: if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

Thraun awoke to the shaking of the wagon. Alvor and Hadvar were awake and had begun loading the bodies on the wagon. The dawn was recent from what he could tell. The sky was still red with the glow of morning, and the air was cool to the lungs.

"Ah, our valiant hero awakens. Any luck finding him?"

"None," he put it regretfully. "Do you think we'll make it to Riverwood today?"

"Depends. We'll be close by nightfall; probably within ten miles. We may just push on for home by that point."

"The sooner we get to cover, the better. I don't like being out here with that bandit still sneaking about."

"Why would the marauder still be after us?" Hadvar posed, irritated. He wasn't making eye contact with Thraun, still packing up whatever belongings they'd removed form the cart the night before.

"Well for one, a grudge. He might want to kill us out of spite. He may have friends relatively close by and is preparing a second attack. I don't want to be around to find out."

"Aye but if he does you'll just take care of them, won't you?" he spoke condescendingly. "I mean, you're a killer, aren't you? Of course we ought to let you under our roof."

"I'm sorry, are you angry that I saved your life or are you angry that you couldn't stomach that I saved your life? Either way, you're the one with the problem, Haddy."

"Enough!" Alvor interrupted. "I don't know what caused the strife between you two, but I won't have you bickering all seventy miles back to Riverwood."

"I'll tell you what it is! Your nephew thinks I'm a threat, even though I killed for the both of you last night!"

"They were going to let us go! You didn't have to kill them!"

"How naive are you? They wouldn't have let us go you moron! Why, so we could go tell the town guard and have their heads put on spikes? By the gods, a soldier that doesn't want to kill. You won't make it very far in the Legion Hadvar, I can promise you that."

He didn't have time to react before the large Nord hauled off and struck him square in his jaw, sending his kinsman to the ground. Alvor was standing between them, facing his nephew, trying to prevent anything else from happening. Thraun was filled with a rage, a temper that often got him into trouble as a child. He rose and pushed Alvor out of the way like he were nothing. He struck Hadvar hard in the gut, causing him to double over in pain. Another punch across the jaw sent him to the ground. Alvor rose and ran to stop Thraun from doing anymore.

"You lay another hand on my nephew, and I'll leave you here," he told him.

"He's not a fighter, Alvor. If you were smart you would've taught him your trade, instead of encouraging a military career."

"Get on the kart, we'll speak later. "

It was a few minutes before Hadvar awoke, and the first thing he wanted to do was go back at it with Thraun, as far as Thraun could tell. Fortunately for the both of them, Alvor put a stop to it before it ever started, pacifying his nephew and addressing the both of them.

"Look here lads. There's seventy miles between us and Riverwood, and I want you both to come to terms with one another. I'm taking the mare. Had, you're driving the wagon, and if you still want a roof to be waiting for you when we get there, you'll ride with him," he pointed at Thraun. As much as it stung his pride, he nodded his agreement.

"Do you understand?"

"Aye," was all he felt like mustering.

"Good. And Hadvar, not one word about this to your aunt. As far as she's concerned, the bandits did that to your face. Same goes for you, Thraun."

The two of them said nothing for miles. Thraun took to the silence as usual, but Hadvar seemed restless. He finally forced the beginnings of a conversation from the pit of his throat.

"They teach you to fight like that in the Legion?" he asked half-heartedly.

"Do you really care or are you having second thoughts about becoming a soldier?"

"I just want to know what I'm in store for," he replied.

"No," Thraun sighed and answered honestly. "My mother taught me all I know. I reckon she had a lot more to teach me before she passed."

"Your mother must have been a hard woman."

"Aye, she could be. She taught me everything I know: building, farming, hunting, fighting, even drinking to a degree. She didn't want me drinkin' all that much around my siblings, though. Thought I might be a bad influence."

"So how by Talos did she birth a ponderous little twat like yourself? The poor woman."

The two shared a genuine laugh with one another for the fist time since they met.

"Well, she taught me that if you weren't working hard with your body, then you had better be working hard with your mind." he continued. "I read a lot, when it was raining or when the crops were sewn or when there simply wasn't any work to be done. Any time of leisure we could afford, I spent reading. I learned a good deal. History, philosophy, life lessons from great stories. Some things you can learn on the battlefield. Some you can't."

"So what made you want to join the legion, if you took to books so much?"

"My father, I think. I sparsely knew him. I can't even remember so much as the sound of his voice, and less still the look of his face. But just from what my mother told me of him, I admired him. He gave everything for his family, and for people he would never meet. But he knew that whatever he sacrificed was for what he thought was right. I admired that. I wanted to emulate that."

"Emulate. Fancy word for a soldier."

"I told you how often I read, didn't I? If I learned nothing else, at least picked up a few words."

"And a few swords," Hadvar quipped. "Would you be willing to teach me how to wield one? Before I leave for my training, that is. I'd like to have a leg up on my peers."

"Aye. One day I might. But Hadvar, you need to adjust to a fighting life. You need to face that reality. Taking another man's life is no small thing, but that's what war is. It's killing to not be killed. When you're in a battle, you don't think about the gravity of what you're doing: you just do it. Because while you're thinkin' about that, all he's thinkin' is that he needs to kill you to survive.

"How would you know about that?" he questioned. "How many battles have you been in?"

"Well for starters, based on what I saw last night, I've killed more men than you. I killed six men in the passed two days. I haven't even had a conversation with six men in that time, but I've killed six men. So what do you think comes easier to me: talking or killing? And if you think that killing is easier for me than striking up a dialogue, don't you think you ought not rule out the possibility that I've killed before?"

Hadvar pondered his words. "So last night…You'd done things like that before?"

"More than once. If bandits were harassing locals, soldiers were conscripted to end the threat. I've killed many men, Hadvar, but I have not killed a single man who did not bring his fate on himself."

"And that's what I'll have to do?"

"Aye, it's a possibility. That depends more on how capable your guards are. Ours were incompetent, lazy, and soft. Were it not for the Legion, bandits would terrorize the majority of Cyrodiil." He said this truthfully, though he no longer felt obligated by the oath of fealty he swore. He truly believed the Legion was essential to the stability of the province, despite how corrupt it was.

"I think I could do that," Hadvar admitted. "If I had to, I believe I could."  
"Believing is part of it," Thraun offered. "A large part, honestly."

Hadvar seemed pleased with his personal revelation, and the two sat in mutual respect for a while. Thraun's calm shifted to worry in an instant however, as he sat up and looked about his surroundings.

"What is it?" Hadvar inquired.

"The bandit has found us," Thraun spoke suddenly.

"What? where is he?" He began to look around frantically.

"Don't look. I don't want him to know we're on to him. He sees us, but we can't see him."

"Then how do you know anyone or anything is following us?"

"I just do, alright? You have to trust me."

"What are we going to do?"

Thraun had thought up a plan the moment he discovered the interloper.

"I'm going to ask Alvor to stop for a minute. To stretch our legs and rest a while before we move on. I'm going to go off on my own into the woods for a shit. I'll come back with his body."

"Let me ask my uncle. He'll listen to me before he listens to you. Only common sense."  
"Very well," Thraun consented. He wasn't too eager to argue; he really did have to shit.

"Uncle Alvor?"  
"What is it, boy?" he responded, irritated.  
"Do you think we could stop a moment? I'd like to stretch my legs a bit and rest the horses before we press on to Riverwood."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt. But the two of you had best not be at each other's throats. Half an hour, then we move on."

"I'm gonna go have a shit," Thraun declared. Alvor stared at him pointedly.

"I could have gone the rest of my day without hearin' that, lad."

"I just didn't want you to wonder where I was, is all."

He walked through the undergrowth and up the hill, passing broad leaf ferns and bushes and impressively massive pines. He was engrossed by his surroundings, almost forgetting that he was in mortal peril. The voice calling to him pulled him from his rapture.

"So how long did you know I was followin' ya?"

"About a mile back," he said. "It wasn't anything you did to give you away. You simply give off a rather distinct odor due to your obvious lack of bathing. I smelt you before I saw you, I mean to say."

"You think yourself better than me, boy. A pampered little shit from the south. You don't know what I've done. What I'm capable of."

"That's only because you ran off before I got the chance. Did you run off because you were overflowing with an excess of courage or lofty deeds? Was It because you thought yourself to be a more skilled swordsman and didn't want to take a life so young? Be that the case, I thank you for your restraint. One possessing such skill as that, I surely would not have been able to withstand you." Thraun scoffed at his own indignity. "I was a trained soldier. I spat on the likes of you. When did you realize I wasn't bluffing? Was it after I killed your first man or your second? Perhaps it took you to the last? I don't suppose it really matters. When you arrive at Shor's hall, you can feed them whatever tripe you like."

He rushed at Thraun, swinging his sword madly like those unskilled brigands who sacked them the night prior. He had no form; Thraun wondered if he had ever held a sword in his life. He maneuvered around his frenzied strikes, ducking and parrying often. He was more toying with him than anything else. He was drawing him downhill, closer to the kart. If he was going to kill him, he thought he should give himself a break and kill him close to the wagon. Carrying 200 pounds on one's back is not easy; the closer the destination, the easier he would make it on himself.

After a few more missed strikes, Thraun acted. The bandit struck down on Thraun, who just swatted his weapon away. Again from the side, and the same result. He stepped in for the thrust and it was his undoing. Thraun parried it to his right away from his body, and leaned in to strike the outlaw across his dirty jaw. Still reeling, he grabbed the bandit by the shoulder and thrust his edge into his abdomen once, briefly. The wound was not deep, but left untreated it would eventually fester and become gangrenous. That was not Thraun's way. He wanted to see the life leave the eyes of his foes. He brought his blade back up, and plunged it deep into the bandit this time, up through his abdomen, puncturing the heart, the lungs, the diaphragm.

The blade stuck out the back of his neck, thickly coated with red tissue and dripping blood. He was dead before Thraun withdrew his weapon. As much as he reviled admitting it, he loved killing. That is to say, killing men who deserved it. Men who were trying to kill him. The power it gave him to defeat an enemy; the feeling of control. He held their life in his hands, and he could extinguish it without a second thought. It was the most power a man could ever feel, he reckoned. He craved it and he didn't know why. He suppressed his own desire, but it seemed no matter how many men he killed, how many foes fell on his blade, he was never satisfied. He wanted to feel the power: to smell the blood, see his sword pierce the flesh of another man, watch him die at your hand. It was the sweetest thing to him.

But he was not a callous person. He lived by a code. Never start the fight, but always finish it. Kill only when necessary. That's why he became a soldier and not a bandit. The art of fighting, the art of efficiently eliminating your foes was the most important thing a person could learn in his mind. He was not a creature to lay about and do nothing and whine about his circumstance. He was one for change, and if violent change was necessary, then he would act violently. If he was in danger, he changed the situation. One self-serving, self-reliant, violent act, and the situation was changed.

He reminded himself of this as he carried the bandit's corpse back to the wagon.


	5. Chapter 5: A Drink to New Friends

Chapter 5

Their ride to Riverwood was relatively unobstructed the rest of the way, save the occasional deer crossing in front of them. Thraun and Hadvar had warmed up to one another, and Hadvar was particularly keen to introduce him to someone back in Riverwood. Evidently they were further from Riverwood than they had first guessed. Either that or they were just moving at a snail's pace. They had been traveling through the night and the twin moons were growing dimmer with the approach of the dawn.

In the morning stillness, Thraun pondered his dream. He had never seen either of the elves in his life. He knew this; he had sworn to remember the face of every Altmer until the day he died for what they had done. What he could not understand is why they mention Wuulfarth. Thraun knew him well, from what his mother told him. He was a warrior without peer, and beloved by the people he served. He was a soldier who fought in the Great War. He was his father.

He may have been placing too much stock into a dream, but he could not shake the reality of it. He was there. He was speaking words he'd never spoken. He was using a voice he had never heard. How does one do that?

Moreover, they were talking about his father. His father was dead. They burned a temple to kill him, but he wasn't there. What temple? By the gods, they even mentioned him! He could not piece it together. He wasn't sure what dream he was even attempting to remember, or if it was even a dream at all?

"Alvor! How was the trip?" A man wearing a yellow garment overtop a scaled vest that covered a shirt of mail, all fastened together at the waist and around the shoulders with a leather belt and straps. His face was covered by a helmet tipped with a pointed metal spike.

"Uncle, would you care if Thraun and I went on to the house?" Hadvar asked. "I want to introduce him to aunt Sigrid."

"Of course lad," Alvor replied. "Tell your aunt I'll be along shortly. Oh, and take Milly around back will you?"

With a nod, Hadvar and Thraun dismounted the wagon, and Hadvar grabbed his mare's reins. He nodded curtly to the guard, who returned the gesture and stared for a moment at Thraun. Obviously, new faces must've been few and far between in the hamlet.

"I need to show you something, Hod," Alvor addressed the guard, moving towards the back and motioning for him to follow.

"I'd like to report a crime."

"Oh?" the guard posed, intrigued. "And what might that be?"

With a grimace, Alvor raised the cloth on the wagon and revealed their unexpected cargo: six dead bodies. Four of which had already bloated, all were developing a sallow color to the skin, and one had eyes rolled over white, as if he'd seen death itself. The stench that escaped was so strong and foul that both men withdrew from the wagon several paces, gagging and eyes swelling with tears.

"Gods have mercy," the guard managed after a fit of gagging. "How did they die?"

"They were bandits. We made camp our first night after Helgen, a few miles east of the guardian stones. They got the drop on us, but we fought them back."

"I didn't know you to be much of a fighter, Alvor," the guard quipped at the blacksmith. "You been practicing with the swords before you sell 'em?"

"Hadvar and I didn't actually kill any of them," he replied honestly. "The lad you saw with my nephew, we picked him up at Helgen. No family, no place to go. He came to me specifically asking' for work, so I offered him a job apprenticing under me and he came with us. As it happens, he's a soldier for the Legion. Or he was, I'm still not sure about that. He killed every one of them. In all my years, I've never seen anyone fight like he did."

Hod composed himself and went on, "Well, I'll need to speak with him too to confirm your stories. But if what you say is true, we shouldn't have a problem. In fact, the boy might've earned a reward! There's been a bounty out on some bandits lately. These may have been them."

"I wouldn't press him too much, Hod. Just ask whatever questions that need to be ask and move on. I don't want him to feel uncomfortable around us. He may be here for some time."

"Of course," the guard complied.

Inside the house…

"Aunt Sigrid? Sigrid! We have company."

Hadvar called out with no response. The house was quaint, but cozy. A fire was blazing, smoke billowing up the chimney, a pot of stew cooking over the flame. The table was all set for a meal, and the bed in the corner had been made. Thraun assumed it was Hadvar's. After a moment, a frustrated looking woman came bounding up the stairs.

"Hadvar by gods' grace will you lower your voice? I just put your cousin down for a nap."

"Ah of course, sorry aunt Sigrid." She frowned, and the two moved towards one another and hugged. She pulled away for a moment and held his face in her hands, smiling.

"It's alright, Hadvar. I'm just glad the Empire hasn't taken you from us just yet. You didn't leave your uncle in Helgen, did you?"

He smiled, "No. He's talking with Hod right now."

"That oaf," she mused. "A whole week he's gone and he'd rather spend it with the morons who "protect" us than with his wife," she sighed to her thoughts, and laid eyes on Thraun for the first time. "Who is this you've brought into our home?"

Thraun met her gaze. It wasn't hostile, but it was not exactly welcoming. More curious than anything. Hadvar spoke on Thraun's behalf when no words left his mouth.

"This is Thraun. We met him in Helgen. Uncle Alvor offered him a job helping him at the smithy, in exchange for a bed and food."

"Did he," she questioned, a tone of skepticism leaking from her throat. Thraun didn't know what to make of it and was growing uncomfortable before she seemed to notice his discomfort and smiled. "Well as long as you don't eat too much…"

Thraun managed a smile and his uneasiness was tempered a bit, but he was still nervous about messing things up when they were finally going right. What if Alvor tells her about the bandits and she thinks him too dangerous? His thoughts were cut short when Alvor stepped through the door, beaming at his wife. Thraun saw the guard who had met them at the gate standing outside. Husband and wife embraced, and Thraun's discomfort resumed.

"Hadvar, why don't you take Thraun to the Sleeping Giant in," Alvor suggested. "You haven't introduced him to Ralof, yet. I'm sure they'll get on well enough."

"Aye, top notch idea, uncle. You two pace yourselves."

The two vacated the house and were stopped by Hod, who questioned Thraun for a moment to confirm his story. He suggested that he go to Whiterun once he was able, to collect the reward undoubtedly on their heads. He would write the documents confirming his claim, and Thraun would essentially have money waiting for him whenever he decided to go. He looked up as Hod was leaving and saw a bird perched above the Riverwood Trader, seemingly glaring at him. He had seen the eagle before, and was weary of it.

"Hadvar!"

A voice hollered from behind the guard, the blond Nord who uttered it came strutting towards them. He wore a blue tunic with the sleeves rolled up and brown pants tucked into his boots. He looked like he'd been chopping wood.

"There is my brother," he continued, walking right onto their porch and embracing his larger kinsman. "I saw your uncle and wondered if you had made it back. But of course you had made it back! can't have a backwater Nord in their outfit whose cunt is bigger than his brains."

"No, but mine's only half the size of yours," Hadvar retorted.

"Oh come now, Haddy, your brain's not quite that small!"

As "amusing" as their banter was, Thraun was eager to get a taste of the bittersweet elixir of the Northmen, eyeing the sign of the Sleeping Giant Inn from his hosts' porch. If he was going to endure much more talking, he needed to be a pint-and-a-half deep.

"Let me introduce the two of you. Thraun, this is Ralof. He's little more than an annoyance around these parts, but he has his moments. Ralof, this is Thraun."

The two sized each other up a moment before shaking hands. Of the three of them, Hadvar was the most physically imposing. Thraun had not met many Nords in Cyrodiil, but the few he did meet Hadvar would dwarf. Ralof was well built, broad and strong, but was shorter than either Thraun or Hadvar. Though, short for a Nord is still rather tall compared to most races. The biggest man Thraun had ever seen was an Orc name Gazrok in the Legion. He once saw him trounce three men in a fistfight before two officers intervened. Thraun himself was tall, even for a Nord. He stood above Hadvar, but was much leaner. He had an impressive strength to him, though. He knocked Hadvar out with a single punch, he recalled.

"Thraun," Ralof began, skeptically. "Ever been to Riverwood?"

"I don't believe I have," he stated simply.

"Well it won't take long to see it all. Had and I will show ya 'round, introduce ya to who's worth you're time and who to avoid like one 'o them skooma-addicted sand cats. But first, I need an ale or six. Milling is thirsty work."

"You're buying, I hope. Haven't got any gold on me."

"Aye, I've got this one. But you owe me. A drink to our new friend!"

"Hurrah!" Hadvar shouted jovially in compliance.

The three of them made their way towards the inn, when Thraun glimpsed a man standing at the gate, dressed in plain robes with a walking stick at his side.

"Damn," Thraun muttered to himself.

"Whats that?" Hadvar had heard him.

"Nothing," Thraun answered. "You two go on ahead, I'll meet you at the inn."

"Where you going?" he persisted.

"I need a piss, if it matters," he responded jokingly.

"You sure you'll be able to find it, stranger?" Ralof inquired.

"I think I can find my own cock well enough," Thraun answered.

"Right then, no worries," said Hadvar. As they walked away, Thraun heard Ralof talking to his friend and kinsman.

"Ah, I like this one. Not like those twats you'll find in the Legion." Hadvar gave him a push and the two laughed to the inn. Thraun turned and followed the flourish of a deep grey cloak around the side of the gate through which Thraun and company had ridden an hour prior. He was met by the stern gaze of a meddlesome old bearded man who had spoken to him only a few days ago.

"What do you want?" Thraun asked him impatiently.

"Good gracious boy, I do not want anything from you, nor do you have anything to give evidently, aside form your contempt."

"Why are you here now?" he continued.

"Ah, I only came to tell you that this is the last you'll be seeing of me for a while. I came to say goodbye. For now."

"You came all this way just to tell me that you're leaving again?"

"Hmph, 'all this way,'" the old man pondered. "Where exactly do you think it is I've been, boy? Traveling great distances takes very little effort on my part. I cold be to the white tower and back before you ever noticed I was gone. But I didn't come here to gloat. I came to see if you have any questions."

"Questions?" He had about a million of them, but he didn't wish to posit a single query to this medieval meddler. Although, he did wonder why he even bothered to bother at all? More to the point, who was making him?"

"Who is your master?" he asked suddenly.

The wanderer looked puzzled by the question. He turned away from Thraun, appearing to have a conversation with someone he couldn't see. He heard a barely audible, "he's going to be frustrated," and rolled his eyes: he would not be getting a straight answer at this time. The old man turned back around to face him with a worried look.

"I cannot reveal that," was all he said.

"Well there's really no use for you to be here then, is there?"

"No matter your feelings on the matter, I'm trying to help you boy."

"Help!" he demanded. "Oh, and I suppose it was by your "help" that I managed to travel a hundred miles in a single night?"

"Aye, I may have had something to do with it."

"Why didn't you just take me to Helgen!" he asked, a genuine anger filling him. He'd been raised without a father, he didn't need some stranger acting in his place now.

"Because it was not my intention. If I wanted to take you right to Helgen, I could have done so. But that is not my place. I can't tell you which road to travel, but I can guide you to the fork. I placed you at the crossroads, hoping you wouldn't be stupid enough to walk into the bandit fort. After all, I was right."

Thraun wanted to hit him. But even now, he knew if he was truly trying to help him, he couldn't just punch him in the face and tell him to fuck off. He might need such an omniscient friend someday. So, he'd settle for only telling him to fuck off.

"If I'm going to make my own way, I don't want your help. I didn't need it to escape my cell, and I don't need it now."

"Thraun, I am not something you can control. I listen to my master, and if you are wise, you will harken to me."

"So you can be my master? Fuck the master! I don't care if it's a saint or a Daedra or Akatosh himself, fuck 'em! I prayed to the saints. I trusted the nine would help me when my farm burned, when they chained me and tortured me for weeks on end. But help never came."

"You're here now, are you not?" Odin questioned. "And so am I."

Thraun looked up, but he was gone. Thraun began to wonder if he was ever talking with anyone at all, the way he seemed to vanish so suddenly. Not wishing to dwell on the man any longer, he left to join his kinsmen at the inn.

Hadvar and Ralof were singing boisterously along to a tune about a red man losing his head.

"…was boastful no mooooooore….when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"

Cheers erupted throughout the hall, and ale was spilt all over the floor. The inn keeper seemed altogether miffed by the whole thing, but business was business. She nearly bowled Thraun over in her fit.

"Coming through, coming through! Damn it, move boy!" she cried.

Thraun stirred from his bewilderment at the fanfare, and backed right into someone. He grabbed Thraun by the shoulders and pushed him forward, stumbling to the ground.

"Watch yourself, boy." he growled. His hair grew just below his shoulders, and possessed a silvery sheen, though Thraun guessed he couldn't have even seen his 40th winter. He was the biggest Nord he'd ever seen, about his height, but far bulkier. Were it not for the knife at his side, Thraun might've tried to thrash him. Possessing the sense the gods gave a skeever, he heeded Ralof's beckoning and walked to sit by the two of them, eyed the entire way by the brute.

"Who is that man?" Thraun inquired.

"His name's Arnbjorn," Hadvar answered. "He grew up here in Riverwood. Joined the Companions for a time, but they kicked him out."

"What for? Being an ass?" Thraun continued.

"Worse rumors than that follow him these days," Ralof uttered grimly. "Best forget him and leave it be. How bout that drink?"

He caught the woman's eyes, and she bustled over to them carrying three pints of ale.

"Here you are, lads." she set the mugs down and divvied them out to the three of them. Wiping her hands on her apron, she looked at Thraun and paused for a moment.

"You're new around here, aren't you?"

"What gave me away?" Thraun asked.

"As soon as you walked through that door, you looked like you saw a mammoth for the first time. The regulars don't look like that."

"I'll have to remember that the next time I see a mammoth," he continued. "Aye, it's my first time here. Any advice for the new man in town?"

"Well, I'd avoid that one if you can help it," she pointed out Arnbjorn, sitting by himself in a corner drinking a bottle of mead and eating the rarest steak Thraun had ever seen.

"I've already been warned about him. Thanks anyway…erm, miss?"

"Oh, my name's Delphine. No miss around here. If you need anything else, just holler."

She smiled and gave a curt nod, returning to her duties. Thraun realized he had not given her his own name, and shouted after her.

"My name's Thraun!" he said plainly. She stopped for a moment, turning her head slightly as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him properly, but shortly moved on. Thinking little of it, he continued on talking with his kinsmen.

"So, that trader came back through from Whiterun while you were away," Ralof started.

"Did he bring his daughter this time?" Hadvar inquired expectantly. "The one with the curls?"

"Aye, she came," Ralof smiled coyly. "Then I told her to get dressed!"

The three of them laughed loudly, and shared a drink to Ralof.

"What'd she look like, besides the curls of course," Thraun asked.

"Oh, ya want me to paint ye a picture?" Ralof responded.

"Just tell me, dammit."

"Fine, fine, don't twist your britches on my behalf. Let me see…She was tall. Fair skinned, a beautiful northern lady. Tits you could get lost in," he paused for a moment, trying to remember anything else. "She asked if she could see my house, and I told her she could because I liked the curve of her ass."

"What a gentleman," Hadvar remarked, rolling his eyes.

"No, you're the gentleman," Ralof replied. "How far has that got you?"

"Fuck off," Hadvar answered. Ralof laughed and took another swig of his ale. Thraun noticed he was out of drink himself, and hollered at Delphine for another drink.

When she came back around, he demeanor had changed. She was less laid back, more curt with her responses. Thraun studied her movements: she was almost rattled, though she tried to hide it. And she did hide it seemingly well: neither of his kinsmen seemed to noticed the shift in her mood, but it was unmistakable to Thraun. He continued talking with his new neighbors, but focused more on Delphine. She would look over at him every now and again, staring for a moment then moving on to serve someone else. Once her glance caught Thraun's eye. It came for a moment and fled even faster, but he knew what he'd seen: a revelation. What she seemingly discerned from a mere glance at his face, he didn't know. But he suspected that something was not right. Before he could ask her, Ralof rapped him on the shoulder with his mug.

"What about you Thraun. Anyone important to meet in Skyrim?" he asked.

"I'm just here to earn a bit of coin before going back to Cyrodiil." he answered honestly.

"Cyrodiil?" Ralof cried. "Trust me kinsman, you go back to the south you may as well lick the elves' boots." Hadvar scowled at that.

"He has family there, Ralof." he answered. "A brother and sister he needs to get back to."

"And no one else?" Ralof continued.

"My father died before I could ever remember him. My mother passed a few years back to fever. I still don't much like to speak of it.

"I'm sorry to hear that kinsman. Truly," Ralof offered sympathetically. "But you're not wantin' for anything else? Maybe a familiar warmth in your bed? A woman?"

Thraun was stunned. How could he have forgotten?

"Aye," he said. "There was a woman…"


	6. Chapter 6: Moving On

Chapter 6

"So? Tell us about her, friend," Ralof demanded.

He had thought of her every day of his imprisonment. His brother and sister dominated his mind, but at some point, every day, she would slip in through the cracks like smoke. And if only for a second, he felt his torment just a little less. Anger swelled at the thought of losing his family, yet was subdued at the thought of her.

"Her name was Arianna," answered. "She was-is-the daughter of the countess of Bruma, heiress to the seat of County Bruma in Cyrodiil."

"Countess?" Hadvar questioned. "You could've been a powerful man, Thraun."

"I've never been one for politics. But if it meant that I could've been with her, I would have made an exception."

"Why'd you leave, then?" Ralof asked.

"It's been said. My siblings and I are orphans, and there was no work enough that could sustain the three of us in Cyrodiil."

"But weren't you a soldier? For the Legion?" Hadvar inquired.

Thraun had gone and backed himself into a corner. He didn't want to tell them the truth of what happened; he hadn't known them long enough to reveal that. Perhaps someday.

"They gave me leave," he quickly lied. "They allowed me to take a long furlough: five years to make sure my siblings are looked after and our estate is in order. After or earlier than the agreed upon time, I am to return to the legion and resume my duties."

"Let's hope my uncle pays you well then," Hadvar jested. "Wouldn't want anyone else to end up like those bandits."

"What bandits?" Ralof asked?

"You haven't heard? It's all the guards have been talking about since Hod left our house. Our first night out from Helgen we were attacked by bandits. Five of them came for us. If Thraun hadn't been there, my uncle and I wouldn't be here."

"Is he saying you killed all of them," Ralof questioned Thraun, who nodded quietly. Ralof turned to Hadvar, "And you want to be in the Legion?"

"Thraun already had the sword," Hadvar argued. "Besides, If l had tried that, l would've gotten us all killed. I've never wielded a sword with a proper edge."

"I could teach you a few things, if you wanted," Thraun offered. "Just some basic motions, footwork, posture, things like that. It'd give you a leg up on your peers in the legion. And you too, Ralof. Maybe you'll be good for something besides flapping your lips."

Ralof smirked and the three of them cheered to the prospect. They finished their ales and made for home. Ralof said his goodbyes and moved around the corner to his house, where he lived with his sister. The sky was clear, and a chill had arisen in the air. The moons shone big and bright against the backdrop of the endless stars. As he walked into his new home, he saw the guards tossing corpses into a large fire, down the road from the gate. The blaze grew so high, burned so bright, it shimmered on the water like the sun fallen to earth.

Alvor was sitting in a chair before the fire of the hearth. He hardly noticed them come in: he was to busy doting on a babe in his arms, smiling and wagging his fingers in front of her. She smiled in kind, grabbing at her father's hands.

"What's her name?" Thraun inquired.

"Her name's Dorthe," Alvor responded. "Already a strong northern lass. She got the fever shortly after she was born. We stayed up all night with her, listening to her ragged little breaths wheeze in and out during the night. She would shake and cry, and we comforted her as best we could. We weren't sure she'd make it."

He paused; even the memory seemed to hurt him.

"But here she is. She's a beautiful child," Thraun continued.

"Aye," he agreed. "I'm sure I'll have to fight the lads off 'er when she's older. But for now it comforts me that the only headaches I have are caused the clang of metal on metal, and not young love."

"It will be many years yet," Hadvar smiled, reaching out to his cousin.

"They come and go ever faster," the elder Nord mused. "Enjoy your youth, lads. Do as much irresponsible shit as you can before responsibilty ties you down."

"You don't regret it, do you husband?" Sigrid came up the stairs, frowning at her better half.

"Darling, if I had never met you, I'd have tried to be a warrior and would've died a decade ago. I thank the gods for you every day."

"Say it, husband."

"I'm a blacksmith, not a Companion," Alvor spouted off, something he had clearly rehearsed a dozen times or more.

"Never forget it."

Hadvar showed Thraun downstairs, as Alvor and Sigrid decided to move upstairs with the babe. The fire that once roared became mere embers by the time Hadvar and Thraun had gone to bed, and the only light downstairs came from two candles perched in goat horns on the wall above their beds.

As the two of them lay in the darkness, Thraun was already thinking beyond the forge. He would not stay in Riverwood for long if he could help it. He needed real employment, something that would bring in more gold in less time. In the Legion he had done jobs for leaders of Counties in Cyrodiil as a part of a battalion or small squadron. Perhaps he could look to the leadership for a job?

"Who's in charge of this place?" he asked Hadvar suddenly. "I've never seen anyone who appears to be an official ruler."

"That'd be the Jarl," he replied sleepily.

"When can I meet him?" he inquired further.  
"I suppose once you've earned enough to buy a horse you can ride to meet him. Otherwise, it's a long walk from here to Whiterun.

"He doesn't even live in the capital?" Thraun asked, confused. He'd never imagined a head of state not living in a palace or keep.

"This isn't the capital of the hold, Thraun," Hadvar said with an audible smirk. "This is just a small village by comparison."

"Then who can I ask for work?" he asked, more frustrated now. "How will I earn a living?"

"I believe the deal was that you work for my uncle in exchange for food and a bed? Is that not fair enough?"

"No, no, it's more than fair, of course." he said defensively. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I need more than that. I need gold…I need gold if I'm ever going to make it back to Cyrodiil."

"You need patience, Thraun. You won't be able to live the rest of your life on what you earn with my uncle, but he makes good coin. Enough to provide for his family. And when you get back to your siblings you'll give them the best life you can."

 _Six months later_

Thraun had taken to smithing like a fish to water. He could forge quality weapons very rapidly, and his armoring was top tier. What he lacked was the desire to do it for any period of time. Every morning it was up at dawn, prepare the forge, gather materials, draw up a schematic, blah blah blah. He was tired of it. What he had not tired of was the free meals and warm bed, so he kept at it. He had saved up quite a bit of gold in his time there (though he would've had a lot more if he hadn't spent so much drinking with Hadvar and Ralof).

The three were practically inseparable, that is, when they weren't working. Hadvar patrolled the streets with the guards, Ralof worked the mill, and Thraun was at the forge all morning, working hot metal and tanning hides for armors. They drank together, they fought together, they made passes at Camilla together. Hadvar and Thraun often eyed Ralof's sister, which much to their delight thoroughly infuriated him. Things were fun, but Thraun still had eyes beyond this village. Beyond Skyrim, even.

He had been having more dreams. Some were typical after a night of heavy drinking (and occasionally Skooma consumption). But some still gave him uneasy feelings. He still dreamt about his father. He dreamt about the elves. He needed to find out more, and he couldn't do it standing at a forge all day. A hard rap on the armor bench shook him from his thought.

"You're late again, boy" Alvor chided him. What did he expect? He was late almost every day.

"Aye, well, some of us actually require sleep to properly work a forge," Thraun retorted. He had come to know a kinship with the blacksmith. Even though he was barely old enough to pass for an older brother, Thraun saw him as a mentor.

"That's it, is it?" he questioned, a playful tone to his voice. "Well the next time you sleep in, I'll send Sigrid down with a bucket of water, get my meanin'?"

"Alvor," Thraun paused, "I need to ask you something."

"You want to know if you can leave?"

"How did you know?"

Alvor smiled and pulled away from the forge for a moment.

"We both knew you weren't gonna be her forever, Thraun. You've got a restless spirit and a warrior's heart. You're as loyal as a hound, and as fierce as a bear. Hell, I hear even that Arnbjorn fellow keeps his distance. Your mind is set on bigger things than apprenticing under a smith for the rest of your days; It always has been. I've seen the armor you made for yourself, as well. Hide? I would've thought you'd be more of the heavy armor sort."

Thraun smiled at his understanding. Even though he was to move on soon, he would miss their banter. Alvor continued.

"As long as you let us know before you go, we'll be happy to see you again someday."

"What if I wanted to leave tonight?"

"Sigrid's making a meat pie tonight, lad," Alvor started. "I'm not sayin' you have to go, but if you chose tonight, I might go with you."

The two laughed, and Thraun finished wrapping the cord around the dagger he had smithed. Alvor let him leave early that day, to say goodbye to his two friends. He found them in the first place he'd bothered to look.

The inn was quiet, a few patrons drinking mead over dinner or just talking. He found the two of them in their usual spot: a bench on the far side of the room, near the fire. When he met their gaze, Hadvar had a troubled look about him, and Ralof as well was not his usual boisterous self.

"What's wrong?" he asked curiously.

Hadvar hesitated, looking at Ralof for support.

"You've been murmuring in your sleep, Thraun," he spoke finally. "You shake and you shiver, sometimes you'll roll around and almost fall out. You'll say something about Wuulfarth or you'll just scream. What's going on?"

Thraun was worried this would happen. It was one of his greatest concerns since he first got off that cart.

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Thraun, we'll trust you. You've had our backs more times than I can remember, and the year's not even up yet? Remember when I spilt my ale on those lads from Falkreath, and you beat them into the fuckin' ground when they had a go at me."

"Aye, whatever it is you've got to say, we'll listen," Hadvar agreed.

Thraun sighed and decided he may as well tell them if anyone.

"Well…I've been having dreams." he began. The two of them looked on expectantly, waiting for him to get to the point.

'Right, everyone has dreams,' he thought.

"In one dream, I'm standing on top of a mountain," he continued. "Boulders of fire are raining down upon me, and grey clouds swirl high above. Every time I have it, I'm consumed by a bout of fire from this great black mass. I don't know what it is or what it means."

The two of them looked skeptically at one another, clearly as unsure as he was on their meaning.

"What about your other dream?" Hadvar questioned, trying not to get bogged down in the one dream.

"Right. Well, I'm honestly beginning to wonder if it is a dream at all, or a memory?"

"Suppose it could be," Ralof offered, still unbelieving from what Thraun heard in his voice. "What makes you think it's a memory?"

"Well, It's not my memory is the thing. There's two elves in the room -Altmer- and I'm one of them. I'm talking to the other about a plan, something we've planned to do or have already done together. He calls me Ulundir, and-"

He heard a crash and looked over to see that Delphine had dropped two pints of mead and had begun cleaning it up, apologizing profusely to the patron whom she had splashed a bit on. She promised him his next round was on the house, and called for her servitor to clean it up. Thraun saw her go into a room adjacent to the bar and out of sight.

"You know, I hear stories about that Jarl Idgrod up in Hjaalmarch, she has dreams too," Ralof suggested. "Prophecy, she calls them."

"Her people call them insanities," Hadvar remarked.

'Prophecies,' Thraun thought. He wished he'd thought to consult the wizard on the matter before he told him to fuck off.

He continued, "They're trying to kill my father. I don't know why. And…"

"What?" Ralof questioned.

Thraun breathed deeply, "They're trying to kill me too. Me, my brother, my sister, anyone who could be an heir."

"Then we must find them!" Hadvar declared.

"It doesn't matter," Thraun said calmly.

"Doesn't matter?" Ralof gasped, shocked by his lack of concern. "Thraun, how can you say that-"

Thraun interrupted, "Because! They don't know where I am, and they don't know where my siblings are."

He heaved a gentle sigh, rubbing his hands through his hair and covering his eyes with his palms before speaking again.

"The reason I was looking for you in the first place was to tell the both of you that I'm moving on. I'm leaving for Whiterun tomorrow morning. I'm going to collect this bounty, and I'm going to hire a carriage to take me to Cyrodiil."

"You're going now?" Hadvar called. "You can't leave now! You just started trainin' us!"

Thraun had taught the both of them a bit about protecting themselves. He was not the most patient of teachers; it was easy to lean on his peers, and he had fun doing it. Watching the two of them spar was particularly entertaining. It never seemed to fail that every time one of them managed a blow to the other, the swords would be cast aside and their training session would turn into an all out brawl. Thraun never intervened, just watched and laughed as the events unfolded.

"Nah, fuck that. I'm goin' with ya," Ralof declared. "It'd be good to get away from that damn mill for a while and do some real work. Besides, my sister can probably fool that halfwit Hod into abandoning his guard duties to help her while I'm away. The way he pines for her..."

"Ralof, you don't have to come with me," Thraun assured him.

"Nor do we have to stay," Hadvar interjected. "We'll all go. It's more than a hundred miles to Whiterun from here, and you're going to walk it alone?"  
"I suppose not anymore," he quipped. "I had planned on leaving tonight, but if you want to wait a little longer we can leave at dawn."  
"Aye. I'll have some goodbyes and explanations to make. Pray that Gerdur doesn't toss a frying pan my way."

In truth Thraun was glad they had decided to go with him. It wasn't his intention to goad them into his company, but since it worked out as such all the better. He hand Hadvar stayed for dinner and explained their forthcoming adventure. Alvor was happy for them, but Sigrid seemed quite distraught by the prospect. Hadvar told Thraun she could hold a grudge for some time. The two packed bread enough for the week, and Thraun packed his gold. He left quite a bit behind with a note. A gift to his hosts for their generosity. He figured he could start to repay them with what he'd earned. Beside that, he couldn't carry three thousand Septims over a hundred miles. That'd just be suicide. He stuffed a hundred in a pouch and made peace with it.

As he lay down to rest, he felt more motivated than he had since he first escaped that Thalmor hell. Things were finally beginning to fall into place. After Whiterun, he'd be able to leave at last. He could take a new name for himself, travel back to Cyrodiil, find his siblings. Maybe even see Arianna again.

As he drifted off to dream, he saw her golden hair once more. Her pale skin soft in his hand, eyes greener than the grass in spring peered deeply into him. She shushed softly, and he fell even deeper into slumber.

 **Author's note** : Hello Readers. I just wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to view or read my story. I really appreciate it, and it fuels me to keep putting my ideas out there. I just felt like I needed to apologize for the slow pace I'm setting with the story. I mean, I spent five chapters covering events that take place in less than a week, but I promise things are about to speed up. On the whole I haven't been thrilled with these chapters, but I just really want to flesh out some of the characters who we will meet later on, before I delve deeper into their biggest challenges. Also, I'm sorry that this chapter and the last came so much more slowly than the others, It's just that I already had the first few chapters laid out, so I've been really having to come up with what happened around my character next. I have big plans for my Dragonborn, and I hope you all stick around to discover them. Thanks again!


	7. Chapter 7: The Gift

With the dawn, Thraun dressed in the armor he'd made for himself. Studded, with heavy iron gauntlets and boots. Thraun had worked with steel many times before and knew it was a tougher material, but iron was cheaper and easier to produce. He had limited access to corundum to produce steel, and Alvor only got in shipments of materials every few weeks.

He never liked wearing helmets in the Legion; they always seemed to obscure the view. He had also forged a steel dagger and a decent steel sword. He didn't prefer to carry a shield. His mobility was predicated on absolute freedom of movement of his left. The knife was a weapon of last resort, and he kept it strapped on the back of his belt.

Ralof wore something similar to what the hold guards wore, but with a simple brown shirt instead of yellow, and no sigil marked it. Hadvar dressed in his legionnaire armor, with his sword strapped to his side. Thraun had encouraged him to wear something else, as he knew that the higher ranking commanders were stringent about keeping one's armor clean and unblemished. Hadvar shrugged him off.

"We're not going there to fight anyways. I just didn't want to be the only one not wearing his amor."

They made their way across the bridge outside Riverwood and north towards Whiterun. They hadn't worn their armor more than a day before deciding to pack it up. It had begun chafing their thighs, making their walk rather uncomfortable. Simple tunics and shirts would do for the rest of the trip.

Their journey was purely serene. No interruptions, no conflicts, just foot on stone surrounded by the trees and the breeze. Riverwood was perched on a mountainous plateau, the river from Lake Ilinalta forming a series of creeks after passing through Riverwood that flowed with the road, occasionally forming falls as they moved downhill. The mist from the falls often licked across their faces, and they camped under one their first night. After a few days they had left the mountains and forests behind, entering open plains and skies to match. The skies of Skyrim were more art than anything else. Thraun had been graced more than once with an aurora, but even the vastness of the stars was beautiful.

Passing Honningbrew, Ralof remarked they only had a few more miles to go. He was the only one among them who had ever made the trip to Whiterun prior to their excursion. He was right: Thraun could see the tip of some tall palace from where he stood, rising high with the clouds. Its walls were obscured by fog, and he could make out little else besides it. They strode through farmland ripe with acres of cattle, vegetables, windmills. The people who lived here Thraun thought of more kindly than most of whom he met in Cyrodiil. The southerners were merchants and ladies, inheriting gold from better ancestors who had earned it for their families long ago, unfamiliar with the work put into placing a fine cut of meat on their table, or the fruits in their bowl. Moreover, they weren't familiar with the people who toiled to put them there. They were fine people mostly, to be sure. They had just forgotten.

The farm they passed was mostly dormant at the moment, but appeared to be taking advantage of the cold weather to grow cabbage and carrots. Thraun's mother always said, "If it starts with a 'C' it grows in the cold." At least, anything they cared to grow. The longhorn just stared at them blankly, paying them little mind while chewing its cud as they passed.

It was the 8th of First Seed. Thraun had been in Skyrim since Sun's Dusk. The 23rd to be precise, which fell on Loredas. Creating a timeline consumed him while in Riverwood. He lost track of days in prison, but he remembered the one. It was the 14th of Mid Year. The day his mother was killed. Every moment he was alone, whether after working the forge or taking a break from drinking, he counted back the days. From Morning Star to Evening Star and back again, until he pinpointed the day. Seeing as it was 4E 189, he calculated that they had imprisoned him for nearly two-and-a-half years. The last time a Loredas fell on the 14th of Mid Year was in 4E 187.

He wondered if he should ever go back there. To search for something-anything-that may have been left behind. Any sign of his kin, anything that could give him hope that he may have some family left in this world. Or if not, at least some closure. He had spoken (lied) so often to Hadvar and Ralof of returning to his brother and sister, he started to believe there was really something to go back to. He never saw his siblings die. He only saw his house burn. Perhaps his mother sent them away? He had to believe; he wouldn't know unless he went back. That's why he came to Whiterun, wasn't it?

It had taken them a week to arrive before the gates of the horse city. Fifteen miles a day was not so easy a march with rations on your back. The three of them agreed that their first stop would be at the inn. Striding right through the open gates, they received curt nods from the guards as the passed. One of them remarked, "kinsmen". The clouds had opened and the sun shone brightly, a welcome warmth amid the chill of the morning. Ralof led the way, having familiarized himself with the location of the inn the last time he was there.

"Whiterun," Ralof breathed. "Every time I'm here I never want to leave. Seems like there's always a wench or two lookin' for company."

"Anyone's but yours, I'm sure," Hadvar quipped.

"This place is falling apart," Thraun remarked. He had ignored their exchange entirely, just taken aback by the town itself. Not for its scale, but for its lack thereof. He had not been deceived by the "grandeur" of the city walls. He had spent his youth in Bruma, around well fortified towns and training in imperial fortresses. The only thing that came to mind in regards to Whiterun was how useless its "defenses" really were.

"What do you mean?" Hadvar questioned.

Thraun was shocked.

"Well look! Don't you have eyes? The walls are crumbling. Gods only know the last time they were properly mortared. Everything is made of wood. There are no battlements or crenellations. You can't even see over the walls in certain spots. It's a defensive nightmare."

"I think you spent too much time in the legion," Ralof stated half-heartedly. "There hasn't been a siege on for thousands of years."

"Aye," Thraun agreed. "That's probably why the guards are so complacent. I think I felt safer in Helgen."

Ralof just rolled his eyes. "In any case, a drink or two will take your mind off Whiterun's shortcomings. Hell, you may even forget it has any at all!"

"No. First I need to see the Jarl."

"You think he agrees to see everyone who just barges into his palace unannounced?" Hadvar inquired.

"Besides that, we promised ourselves a drink!" Ralof interjected.

"He will once he sees why I'm here," he explained. "I want to get this bounty paid for. If its enough, I'll buy you both a drink, hmm?"

"I have never been one to pass up a free ale." Ralof replied. "Lead on then."

They passed a great dead tree surrounded by benches along the way. A great building with what appeared to be a ship for a roof was up a set of high and wide stone steps to their right. An enormous statue of Talos was perched in a corner of the courtyard; a shrine stood at the base of his feet. Moving higher up the stairs to the Jarl's palace, Thraun could appreciate the city a bit better. It was open and in need of serious renovations, but it was beautiful. The market in the lower districts was bustling in the morning, and a priestess had begun morning prayer before the tree.

' _Keep praying,_ ' Thraun thought. ' _Nothing ever comes of prayers you fool. You must not simply ask for blessings or love or rain. Act and you will receive. I prayed to be released from my imprisonment and what did I get? Tortured. I was a slave to their cruelty, their whips, their jokes. But I would take them still over enslavement to a god, for slavery to man lasts at most a lifetime, but slavery to a god lasts even beyond death_.'

They passed under a tall archway, each post topped by a lit fire, and on each was mounted a wooden carving in the likeness of a horse's head. They were decorated in other ornate engravings and swirling patterns all along their faces as well. Behind it an even taller structure like a pergola stood with arched wooden beams forming an open roof under which to walk, extending from the top of the stairs all the way to the doors of the palace.

The doors were high and heavy and thick of oak so far as Thraun could tell. Their planks reminded him of the walls of his childhood home. They were reinforced with iron, and two guards had to push them open for Thraun and company to pass.

The inside of the palace was simple, but beautiful. High wooden beams supported an arched roof, and single tier, round chandeliers hung from some of the rafters. Banners depicting a yellow horse hung all about the room, and there appeared to be an upper level that perhaps housed the Jarl among other members of his council.

At the very back wall, the biggest skull he'd ever seen was perched above a rather plain throne. He had never seen its likeness before, but knew it was a dragon. That was a head big enough to swallow a horse! How men were able to overthrow such powerful creatures Thraun would never know.

Before the throne was a massive fire pit (something Thraun thought to be utterly ridiculous in a building constructed almost entirely of wood) with two long tables on either side, both draped in linen cloths and covered with all sorts of food. The smoke from the fire floated freely up through open slats in the roof. There were several chairs placed around the tables, but it seemed like the Jarl rarely entertained guests. At leasts, guests he was fond of.

He looked to be a young man, but the wears of ruling already shone on his face. His eyes were sagging, and he did not smile. Someone was pleading with him for aid with a vampire problem, but he seemed altogether disinterested. He wore a gold circlet around his blond hair, appearing to bear a ruby at its center. His clothes were finely made, a golden chain clasped around an ornate shirt, and thick furs draped around his neck. He wore fine fur boots and black trousers, which were attached to his shirt by a belt. However, he bore no sword at the hip.

He sat slumped in his chair, clearly bored by whatever this person was saying. His head was supported by the bent wrist of his right hand, his eyes fluttering to stay awake.

"Aye, he looks very busy," Thraun jibed at Hadvar. The Jarl seemed to notice them, and he turned to look at his housecarl, a Dunmer woman dressed in leather armor wielding a steel sword. She acknowledged and approached the three of them.

"What business do you have with the Jarl?" she questioned.

"I'm here to collect the bounty on these bandits. I have a document from the commander of the Riverwood guard validating my service."

She took the letter from his hand and read it, returning it to Thraun with a nod.

"Wait a moment. The Jarl will speak with you personally."

The Jarl and elf locked eyes once more, and she seemed to convey to him that they were more important than what this man was blithering on about.

"My Jarl, if you would only consider-"

"I have heard enough. You are a long way from the Rift. If Lady Law-Giver wouldn't grant your requests, I don't see why I should either. Should you bring me proof of these attacks, I will be happy to listen to you. Until then, words are not as strong as stone."

"By the time I bring you evidence who knows how many could have died! None of you give a damn about this threat!"

"Careful, Redguard. You are a stranger to these lands already. You don't want to go making trouble for yourself with a Jarl. Besides, you apparently have enough to deal with already. Be gone, and if what you say is true, fight well. I have nothing more to say to you."

The man turned and eyed the three Nords as he went, clearly frustrated by the lack of sympathy he'd garnered from the exchanged. Thraun might've called him on the look, but he looked like he knew how to use that warhammer. Best just leave him be.

"What can I do for you, gentleman?" the Jarl asked suddenly.

Thraun approached and, not sure of how to properly address the ruler, bowed curtly before him.

"My name is Thraun, my lord. I have a signed document from one of your men stating that I require compensation for a task I have completed. The bandits that have been harassing Riverwood have been killed. I'm here to collect on their heads."

"Ah, results," he perked up. "If the man before you had brought me some paper, I might have listened to him."

As he poured over the document, Thraun examined the lord. Even sitting, he could tell he was a taller man. Perhaps even taller than he, but he was leaner of build.

"You said your name was Thraun?" he asked. His tone made Thraun uneasy.

"Aye," he said curtly.

"The son of Valara and Wuulfarth?"

Thraun felt his brow furrow. How did he know that?

"The very same," he went on.

The Jarl rose and yelled at his guard.

"Go and fetch the trunk from my room. Now!"

The two helmeted men fled through a stone doorway adjacent to the Jarl's throne.

"I must say we have been waiting a long time to meet you," he continued.

"How is that possible?"

"Yes, well, many years ago your mother left a chest and a letter with my father and predecessor, stating that one day one of her children would collect it. She named three children. Your name was in the letter, along with a "Trajan" and an "Aveline". I must say, neither of you really look like an "Aveline"."

"These aren't my siblings, they're my friends," Thraun corrected. "I did not come here with family."

The Jarl shrugged it off. "In any case, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I am Balgruuf, Lord of Dragonsreach and Jarl of Whiterun Hold."

He extended his hand in greeting, which Thraun accepted, making the young Jarl smile.

"Gods, what's taking them so damn long?" he said suddenly. He rushed passed them and up the stairs to check on his guard.

"Must've made an impression," Hadvar remarked.

"I didn't think we'd been here that long," Ralof added.

The two guards came puffing down the stairs, carrying a wooden chest which they seemed to be struggling with. The straps on either side were taught, and the bottom of the thing appeared to curve downward slightly from the load. The Jarl trailed behind them, carrying a key, an envelope, and a document of some sort. They set the chest before Thraun, and bowed, returning to their post.

"I believe these belong to you," he said, handing Thraun the objects in his hand. "I'll have the men bring it to your house."

Thraun's eyes widened, "My house?"

"Aye, Breezehome. A fine little house. Still furnished, practically in the same condition she left it all those years ago. Belonged to your mother, you see. A gift I think she meant for you. The house and everything in it are yours That's what the key is for."

"And the rest?"

"Ah yes," he went on. "The document is the charter to Breezehome, and this is its key. She bequeathed these items to Jarl Hroand, my father, before she left Skyrim. For safekeeping, to be immediately returned to either you or one of your siblings as a claimant upon your return to Skyrim. I'm glad I was able to see you in person."

"What about this envelope?" Thraun questioned.

"I don't know," he admitted. "That is your right to read, not mine."

"My mother left you all of this?" he asked, still baffled.

"Only to hold, not to have," Balgruuf assured him. "The contents of the chest are what's left. She left behind a small fortune to have the house cleaned every month or so."

"Thank you, my Jarl," Thraun stammered at last. "I admit I only came here for the bounty."

"Right, of course. I'll have it sent with your chest."

"No need my lord," Ralof interjected. "We'll take it with us."

"Good on you. Your names?"

"I am Ralof, son of Byron, of Riverwood. This is Hadvar, son of Rhondir. His uncle Alvor is the blacksmith in Riverwood, and I run the mill with my sister."

"Pleasure to meet you both. If there's anything else I can do for you, just let me know. Dragonsreach is open to you."

"Well, while we're here," Ralof went on, "is there any work to be done? Anything at all? Truth be told, I tire of the miller's life."

Balgruuf smirked at his candor. "Aye, there has been word of bandits harassing the roads into Whiterun north of here. I was going to hire the Companions to off them, but if you'd prefer to do it, there's 1,000 gold in it for you."

"It would be our pleasure," Hadvar answered.  
"Very well. On with you then."

The three of them bowed and took their leave. Thraun carried the bounty gold while Hadvar and Ralof took the chest. They struggled with it immensely, to Thraun's amusement.

They stopped in the marketplace to buy some fruit and venison jerky before investigating the house. They hadn't eaten all morning, and they were starving. Thraun turned the key, unlatching the lock. The inside was surprisingly well kept after 15 years. Thraun figured the Jarl had just taken out a sum as his "lawful tax" and neglected to clean it entirely. There were books on the shelves, rotted wood in the fire pit, unlit candles all about the hall, and empty weapon racks and plaques adorned the walls.

"Where do you want this, then?" Ralof asked, gesturing to the chest.

"Anywhere," Thraun muttered. He looked at the envelope in his hands, the seal still unbroken after all these years. His friends noticed his intent.

"I'll go buy some fresh wood from the general store," Hadvar started. "Get us a fire going."

"I'll go get us some of that meat the elf was selling," Ralof added. "Looked pretty damn good to me."

Thraun shook from his rapture.

"Pick us up some ale while you're out. We never did get that drink."

The two nodded and went about their errands. Thraun sat in one of the chairs by the fire pit, unsure if he wanted to read the letter or his mother anticipated her own fate? What sentiment had she left behind? He'd never know unless…

He worked at the seal and tore the envelope open. Out fell a small key at his feet. He picked it up and placed it on his lap to examine later. As he looked at the letter, he realized it wasn't from his mother at all. It was from his father. It read,

 _My children. I'm so sorry I never got to see you grow up. If you are reading this then you are old enough to understand why. I don't know if your mother will ever have spoken with you about this, about me. But whatever she tells you, know that I loved her more than anything. More than the life the gods gave me. And know that I love you._

 _Now I am going to tell you something that you might already know. You are strong, all of you. There is nothing in this world that can defy you once you've set on changing a thing or two. You are smart, and you are good, and in spite of the pain you may face, you are going to beat this world. I will never be able to receive it, but I want you to promise me that you will always do what's right. Always be good. Never forget what it means to have life. Once you forget that, then you are lost._

 _I'm sorry I could not leave you with more words. I've never been a gifted speaker (just ask your mother), but I hope this letter has given you a bit of solace and explanation. But if my words cannot please you, then perhaps my gifts can. Move away the box from under the staircase. Beneath it you will find a trapdoor. That is what the small silver key is for. All within are yours to use as you wish. I hope everything fits. The ring looks quite nice. Know that the gods and myself will see all that you do. I don't know if I can feel pride in death, but I think that when we meet at last in Sovngarde, I will know you all and be proud to call you my children._

 _With love your father,_

 _Wuulfarth._

Thraun sighed, wiping the tears what welled in his eyes but refused to fall. He took the small key in his hand. It was two-pronged and ornately fashioned, swirls of silver carved up and down its length.

'Pretty damn wasted on a key,' he thought. He rose and moved towards the stairs. He found the large wooden crate and scooted it aside. Sure enough, a cellar door. Thraun assumed no one else knew about it, perhaps not even his mother. Twisting the key, the knob on the door popped up suddenly. Thraun opened the latch, and attached the handle to a hook on the stairs. Something else his father had put there no doubt. Descending the ladder, he could not believe what he saw.

The room was a bloody armory! Two mannequins stood at the wall to his left, one adorned in steel armor, a familiar set that he had forged quite often. The other he did not recognize. It looked to be made of steel, but was much finer than the set it rested beside, and its design was much different. It was a series of horizontal metal strips, each falling to slightly cover the ones below it, fastened to a set of mail, and leather straps beneath it. Its pauldrons were high on the shoulders, and at its waist the cuisse hang limp and loose like a curtain. It looked to be a very mobile yet sturdy armor. The shield on its arm was also unique. Perfectly circular, its outer band was composed of gold with intricate patterns carved all around its edge. After it was a band of turquoise colored material, containing twelve mounds or bumps within its borders. The final was a plain steel center encircled by a thin gold band, and four large gold bumps sprouted from it. It seemed a bit fancy for a battle.

All along the wall opposite the ladder were dozens of racks bearing swords, battle axes, maces, etc. Weapons of all shapes and sizes, mostly made of steel. On the wall adjacent to the ladder were many bows and quivers of arrows. The center was dominated by an armorer's workbench and a sharpening wheel.

At the far wall stood a statue of Talos, as tall as a man, placed on a raised stone platform, a shrine at his feet. Beneath it were perched two weapons on horizontal racks, a battle axe and a sword. Thraun approached them, and the light danced on the shimmering steel of their edge as he moved. The axe was unlike any he had ever seen. It bore a thick spade on its back, and its beard was enormous, twice the size of his head. At its tip sprang a spear, which appeared to be of a different metal than the rest of the axe. The shaft was long, but not as long as him, and a plain grey steel. As he lifted, he couldn't believe how light it was. It looked heavy; it should be heavy, but he held it easier than the sword at his side. He noticed an inscription on the spade in a language he could not read. It didn't look much like a language at all, just a series of peculiar symbols. Pointed lines and dots.

He then noticed the sword that rested below the axe, which was adorned in the same symbols, except many more of them, all along the blade. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, even lighter than the axe, with more weight in the straight handle than the blade itself. It was single bladed, long and straight and narrow, coming to a curved point at its tip. It bore no guard, and its handle narrowed slightly from top to pommel. Neither weapon had been used in some time, but gods did they still look sharp.

He gaped at them for a moment before staring at Talos, who peered down upon him and reminded him of his fathers message. He grunted, and placed the weapons back on their racks. He then noticed the ring his father had mentioned. It was a lovely little thing, a sterling silver ring, polished and pure, shimmering even in the slimmest glint of light. In the setting was an exquisite blue sapphire, encircled by nine smaller flawless diamonds.

The engraving in its stand read:

 _Luckband. Bearing this ring makes you Luck-Wearer. With this ring, fight until all have fallen. Your strength will not fail you._

Thraun was so enthralled with its craftsmanship that he had not heard his companions return from their errands.

"Thraun! Where are ya!" Ralof shouted.

"I'm down here!" he shouted back even louder.


	8. Chapter 8: The Truth

"Do you think the Jarl knew all this was here?"

"I doubt it," Thraun answered. "They've had almost twenty years to confiscate these weapons, but not a damn thing is missing."

"But nothing's covered in dust," Hadvar sounded. He was right. Everything was clean and shining, and the torches were still lit. Who had lit them?

"Whoever was cleaning things here might've come across it, and had the decency to keep their mouth shut," Ralof offered.

"I do not think it likely," Thraun replied. "I'm sure we'll never figure it out."

"Still, they're lovely looking things, aren't they," Ralof said, eyes gleaming in awe of the treasure trove surrounding him.

"Aye," Thraun agreed. "I wonder why my mother never told me about this? Or the chest? Why keep that a secret?"

"Speaking of the chest, have you taken a peek yet?" Ralof inquired. He hadn't.

"No," he admitted meekly.

"Well gods above, what're we still doin' down here? C'mon, lets have a look!" Ralof exclaimed. Hadvar had been silent, observing his friend rather than trying to distract him as Ralof was. The three made their way back upstairs to the corner where they had placed the chest. Hadvar and Ralof stood at either side of Thraun as he opened it, gawking at its contents.

It was filled with gold. More gold than any of them had ever seen. But not only gold: jewels, precious metals forged into ingots, and jewelry. Rings and amulets and circlets abound. Not even the Jarl had anything this nice adorning him or his councilors.

"Have you ever seen so much gold, Had?" Ralof questioned.

"I've never even read about someone having so much gold," he replied. "But I reckon there's bound to be wealthier people out there. The Black-Briars and the Silver-Bloods are probably the wealthiest families in Skyrim. Got whole rooms filled with chests like this, I've heard."

Thraun scoffed, "One is more than enough for me. I wonder why my mother didn't bring this with her when she left. Or why she never told me about it?"

"She might've believed it would be to risky to bring with her," Hadvar offered, "in case bandits or something attacked. You know that threat better than most. Or she could've wanted you and your siblings to have it once she thought you were ready for it."

"Or maybe she didn't even know it existed," Ralof suggested.

Hadvar shrugged, "Well, there's that…"

Ralof's expression lit up, "I guess now you'll be able to pay to bring your siblings back, eh? Plenty of room for both of them here."

The prospect of seeing his siblings again was bittersweet. He truly had no idea where they were, or even if they were still alive. He had always assumed they were in the house when the elves torched it. But he had to hold onto hope. An impossible, irresponsible, blind hope that they were out there somewhere, together, and that they were alright.

"Of course", Thraun mustered.

Hadvar and Ralof stared blankly at one another.

"Please calm down, Thraun."

"Yes, you seem positively over the moons at the prospect."

They shared concerned looks again when he did not respond to the jest as they had hoped.

"Is everything alright, Thraun?" Hadvar questioned.

"You've been mopey ever since we spoke to the Jarl," Ralof added.

Everything was most certainly not alright. One might consider a chest full of gold and an armory in the basement a blessing, but it felt more like a winze. He never really knew his father; he had accepted his fate long ago, and had not thought of what mysteries may have died with him for a long time. But he did know his mother, or at least he thought he did. The dead cannot tell their secrets, but his mother had 18 years to speak the truth of this, only she never did. And now he would never know. But he was finished keeping secrets from his friends.

"No. Nothing is alright. I have been living a lie these past six months. I lied my way into your lives for my own survival."

"What are you talking about, Thraun?" Hadvar asked.

"I never received a furlough from the legion. I didn't come to Skyrim looking for gold to support my family. As far as I really know, my siblings are as dead as my parents."

He sighed, placing his palms in his eyes and resuming. He spoke to Hadvar.

"You saw the scars on my wrist the day you met me. You suspected, but I shied away from the conversation. You were right. I was imprisoned, but not for anything I did wrong," he pleaded with his kinsman. He could detect the anger gathering beneath his friends' exteriors.

"Years before I came to Skyrim, I was in the legion. I told you that much. But, I lied to you about the rest. I was never given leave; I didn't come here because they let me…They tried to execute me."

"Execute you?" Ralof shouted in bewilderment. "For what crimes?"

"Crimes?" Thraun replied, insulted. "I _NEVER_ committed a crime against the damned legion! They framed me!"

"Framed you for what?" Hadvar spoke, vexed. He didn't believe him, he knew that much.

"Now you listen to me, and you'd better listen damned well. It may just save your life. When I first came to the Legion, they wouldn't let me in. I was 16, and I had left home for the first time. I wasn't about to go back to the farm after going all that distance. My temper got the better of me, and I called the recruiter a milk drinker and an idiot. Before his underlings threw me out, I challenged him to a duel. When I beat him, they let me in. I earned my way up through the ranks. A year later I was a Praefect; I wasn't the youngest person to ever achieve the rank, but none of my superiors could ever recall someone becoming a junior officer so quickly. I wasn't the best fighter, but I was tough, and the veterans who were exceptional loved to spar with me because I wasn't afraid of them. I was a dutiful soldier; I never once questioned an order. Then again, they never had me do anything contrary to my morality."

"Is this a story to sustain your ego or are you going to get to the point," Hadvar snarled, growing impatient. Thraun frowned and continued.

"My point is that I was only as good as my superiors allowed me to be. They began to ask me to do things unbefitting of a soldier of my or any rank: personal errands, spying, intimidation, extorting. Get the people to do what they wanted, and blot out the troublemakers. The abuse of power was unattractive, but not unheard of in the Imperial City. I reasoned that no one was getting hurt, and I was told that my work would benefit the Legion as a whole, so I was still on the right side. Death itself was too harsh a punishment for the detractors, but fear of dying would keep them both in line and productive. I drew the line after a Tribune asked me to retrieve a package for him from the docks. I didn't know what it was, but I was told to look for a small black crate, no larger than a breadbasket. When I arrived at the docks, I saw a tall figure consulting with three Legates. I shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but I was tired of being their damned errand boy. I nearly choked when I heard them speak of murdering the Emperor."

"Murdering the Emperor?" Ralof gasped. "You're not serious?"

"I wish I wasn't," Thraun replied. "More than you know, I wish I had never heard that." Hadvar was perplexed, and a substantial rage appeared to be brewing within Ralof at the thought of their treason.

"The next thing I heard was the thud of a gold-ridden chest slamming onto the wood of the dock. They seemed satisfied with its contents upon opening it, and the Legates offered a bundle of documents in return. Secrets of the Empire: the truth of her military might, the status of its allies and economic stability, an account of all its resources, flaws within the defenses of major Imperial strongholds throughout Tamriel and the Imperial City itself, and the daily schedule of the Emperor. With all the information they had given the elf, a single chest of gold hardly seemed a fitting reward. The last thing I heard was a half-hearted mention of the package that I was sent to collect. The elf noted that someone had spent half their earnings to see it delivered, and that it was among the cargo just offloaded from the vessel. The Legates disregarded its significance and said that someone would be by to fetch it with haste and without question."

"When the elf boarded the ship and the Legates left, I went searching for it. And when I found it, I snuck off to a secluded part of the docks and opened it. Whatever was inside was covered in packing straw, only a black shining metal protruding through the thin strands. It stank horribly. As I moved away the straw, I started to understand that it was a helmet of some sort, but why did it stink. When my fingers touched hair and the cold skin of a HUMAN ear, I knew why. I fell away from the package, kicking it in my fear as I moved. The head rolled out of the box, and it was more sickening than I had previously imagined. It was the head of a man, an Imperial by the tone of his skin, with short hair and stubble on his round face. His eyes had been removed, and his open mouth showed that his tongue was missing as well. The Imperial dragon was carved into his forehead."

"I noticed his helmet next. It was a deep grey polished steel, rounded off at the top, bearing some sort of three-toed claw lain into the helm like a crest. I knew immediately that it belonged to a member of the Blades. I'd heard enough about the Great War to know their prominence was a contributing factor to its instigation. But they had been exterminated, so how could this man have gotten his hands on one? I looked to the box for more information, and found a note addressed to the Tribune that read:

" _This pretender is dead. You were wise to yield before the wars to come. None who opposes us will survive when the eagle moves west."_

"Once I had gotten over the shock of it all, I emptied my stomach right into the water, and someone heard me. When I realized someone was coming, I ran. They hadn't seen me, and I had information that could save the Emperor's life. I could never go the Emperor himself, so I went to my friend Calvarus Silvae, who was also the Legate in command of my battalion. I didn't know who to trust, but I thought I could trust him. He was my commander and my mentor and I thought he would do whatever necessary to make their secrets known and protect the Emperor. How was I rewarded for my honesty? He sent me home. Right then I should've known something was off; no one got leave unless they were bedridden or there was a family emergency, and even that was rare. No one got a vacation for good behavior, least of all _two weeks_ of vacation."

"All they were really doing was buying time to figure out how to get rid of me. Not that it took them long to figure out that my death also meant my permanent silence. It was the _how_ of my demise that required prolonged consideration. In the end, they sent the Thalmor after me.

"But they only imprisoned you?" Ralof questioned further. Of the two, he seemed less skeptical of Thraun's story. Thraun replied with a nod.

"Those were the last days my family spent together. Almost three years ago, I went hunting in the hills beyond our home. When I came home I found my mother being attacked by Thalmor officers. She had already killed one of them: she was a true warrior, my mother. A fighter with few peers among men or women. But she was tiring. So I took aim, steadied my hand, exhaled, and loosed. The arrow found its way into the neck of one of the hooded cunts. It was the WORST decision I ever made. I distracted her…and they cut her down. When I ran to her, one of them cast some sort of spell that made me powerless to move or protest, but did nothing to dull my senses. I watched helpless as they set fire to my home with my brother and sister still inside."

"They left my mothers body there. I'll never forget how wide her eyes were, staring into the sky without seeing. They didn't even have the decency to throw her body into the fire. They left her for the birds and the wolves and the flies. I shouted after her as they dragged me away, and looked on in rage at the merciless thugs who laughed and scorned me. The one who seemed to be their leader was the same whom I had seen on the ship two weeks prior."

"I watched him, smirking as my house burned and I lay weeping. I saw it every day when they imprisoned me and gave me these," he held up his wrists, the scars etched prominently on his skin.

"I saw it every time they tortured me. He would come when I slept, and I would awake to the pain of lightning coursing through my body and hastening the beating of my heart. In the corner stood the elf, smirking. They doused me with water and took me outside to freeze. They scourged, stretched, branded, all the usual things. But it wasn't for information. They just enjoyed it. All the while, that bitch of an elf lordling stood there, arms crossed, black hood adorning his head, showing nothing. Not his eyes, not his brow, not his nose. Only that fucking smirk of his."

"If they enjoyed humiliating you so much, why did they release you?" Hadvar finally asked. "How did you escape?"

"I just started whispering in the night. All the time, whispering nonsense. Cursing or singing every word that came to my head. Rambling about anything I thought of. I think they thought they had broken me. They unchained me, dragged me through the cold stone halls and threw me out in the snow to freeze and die. But I refused that. I would not accept their mercy. I decided to live. I swore before the gods and the moons in the sky that I someday I would hunt them down. I would not make their deaths quick and they certainly would not be painless."

"It's the real reason I came to Skyrim. My mother taught me a good deal about fighting, and even though I honed my skills in the Legion, I was not the best warrior. The strongest fighters were born and bred Nord warriors. They were Redguard master swordsmen and Orc brutes and berserkers. I knew too little, but I knew where I could learn from my kinsmen. My mother always talked of the Companions, a guild of fighters famed in Skyrim for their valor and battle prowess. It's the real reason I wanted to come to Whiterun. I could never have anticipated the truth I actually discovered here." Hadvar spoke after a prolonged pause.

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" Hadvar finally inquired. "Why should we believe you?"

Thraun was hardly surprised by his friend's doubt, but nonetheless it did sting a bit.

"Perhaps you should look at my wrists again and wonder why I have these scars. Why would I make all this up?"

"This could just be an even more elaborate ruse. Perhaps your'e a lunatic and you want to breed distrust of the Empire by spreading these ghost stories. I don't know why you would make something like this up, but you can't deny it's hard to believe you've uncovered some massive conspiracy involving the Thalmor and Imperial defectors."

"Aye, you're not wrong. I might not believe it myself if I were in your place and you mine. But Hadvar, I saved your life twice. I know I can't take back my lies, but I need you with me. I need my friends now more than ever. I don't expect that I will rebuild the trust that was once there. Not overnight. It'll be a whole lot harder to do than just walking away. But I brought you here; I want you with me. Both of you. If nothing else, come with me to earn the bounty on these bandits. If you want to leave when we're done, I won't blame you. You can go on your way and I'll go on mine and we'll never look back." Ralof spoke first.

"I'm with you, Thraun. It makes no difference to me how or why you came to Skyrim. You became my friend, and have had my back since the day we met. You've never led me to believe that you are a dishonest person. I couldn't forgive myself as a northerner if I abandoned a friend who never abandoned me."

Thraun placed his hand on his kinsman's shoulder. Ralof was more akin to Thraun in temperament than Thraun was to Hadvar, or Hadvar to Ralof. Thraun and Ralof tended to lose their tempers, while Hadvar was more patient and level headed. Hadvar was the calm observer to Ralof and Thraun's wildness. He was being awfully quiet now.

"Hadvar?" Thraun asked when he would not say anything.

"I'll go with you, Thraun. But I can't believe that the Legion is that corrupt. Not unless I see it for myself. Once we've returned from this bounty, I'm going to buy a horse and ride south for the Imperial City. It's nearly time for that anyways."

Thraun nodded his approval, but Ralof seemed put out at the idea. Thraun didn't want his friend to go south, to possibly face what he had seen, but he knew he couldn't stop him without doing something drastic. He could only watch his friend make this mistake, and help him once he learned the truth.

"Thank you, brothers," was all he said. They each nodded in acknowledgment, and the two of them began preparing the meat they had purchased over the fire.

Thraun opened the cellar door and descended once more. He wanted to try on that armor.

*Author's Note*

I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while. The holidays are a very busy time for us all, and between school and family and work (and recently getting my wisdom teeth pulled) I haven't allowed time for my mind to wander, which is basically the driving force behind these chapters. This chapter has been rough going. Anyways, I hope you all still remember me and that you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9: Too Much at Once

Author's Note: This is a lengthy one. I hope you enjoy!

 _8th of First Seed, 4E 189_

The steel rested comfortably on his shoulders. It had a little give around the torso, but the gauntlets and boots were snug. His father must've been a large man to require armor this robust. Thraun was hardly gaunt, but he wasn't the most burly of Northmen. It would probably have fit Hadvar better, but he knew how to move in heavy armor better than Hadvar did, and wouldn't risk his friend's life by giving him a set he'd never worn to wear in a place he'd never been. However, he could start rebuilding trust by giving them a weapon. Besides, he (as did his father in life) had far too many weapons than could be wielded by a single man.

Ralof was a skilled archer. If the three of them ever went hunting, Ralof never seemed to miss the target. If the animal had been hit and ran off, it would drop dead no more than a mile or so further into the woods. He preferred an axe to a sword; working the lumber mill must have bred that in him. Thraun had only ever used the Imperial short sword, so he did the best he could training with an axe. He also only had ever worn light armor, so he would have to do with what he brought with him.

Hadvar was larger and slower than Ralof or Thraun; given time and proper training, he would be a demon in heavy armor and a great sword. But right now he liked the sword and shield combination. The swords in his armory had longer reach than the ones they'd been practicing with, and would work better with someone as large as Hadvar. Thraun took off the armor and climbed back upstairs with gifts for his friends.

"Take these," he said, handing Ralof the bow and quiver, and Hadvar the sword and shield. "They may prove some use to you."

Hadvar smirked, "Are you trying to buy our trust?"

"I'm buying you longevity," Thraun replied, not dissuaded of his intentions by the remark. "These weapons may be the difference between life and death. Take the day and get used to them. We leave at dawn."

"I'd need a week to get good with one of these bows," Ralof complained. "I haven't shot since we left Riverwood."

Thraun smiled, "Well, I'd give you a week if I thought it would actually help. The walk to Redoran's Retreat will take about as much. You can practice more with it on the trip."

"What are you going to do?" Hadvar called after Thraun as he walked towards the door.

"Make some friends," Thraun voiced as he closed the door behind him.

'How the hell had they managed to make a ship into a building?' he wondered as he ascended the stairs to the renown mead hall. The wood looked like it had been there for centuries, but still seemed sturdy. Probably the most secure part of the city, besides the Jarl's palace. There was only one path up to the mead hall, and the stairs were steep. A few good archers could defend it until they ran out of arrows.

The most striking part of the city was the forge, or perhaps the 30-foot stone eagle that stood guard there. Thraun heard all about Skyforge steel from Alvor. He spoke highly of Eorlund Gray-Mane, who taught him the art of smithing when he was a young man. He always thought it was the forge that gave the steel its mettle, not the smith. Alvor admitted he had never crafted anything that could match it, but refused to give the old man credit. Thraun had seen Skyforge steel in action, however, and believed calling Gray-Mane the best smith in Skyrim was no boast. A trader passed through Riverwood trying to sell a dagger made by Gray-Mane, and to demonstrate its durability, stabbed it into a stone forty times. Granted it never actually pierced the stone, but remarkably, the blade kept its edge! With all the money he'd just come into, maybe he could finally afford to buy some. Or maybe he'd just purchase a bit of time from the old man and learn how to make it himself.

He rapped on the door three times, and three again when no one answered. When he beat on the doors harder, a voice hollered from inside.

"Just fucking come in!" someone shouted, slightly muffled through the doors.

He opened the door to see a stout imperial scowling at him. An orc and a woman were brawling adjacent to a massive wooden table wrapped around a rectangular fire pit. A greying Nord draped in furs stood on the other side of the hall jeering at them, and a Dunmer woman sat quietly at a table, splitting her time between munching on an apple and reading a book.

"The _fuck_ you doing, beatin' on our door like that?" The shorter man inquired, angrily. "Maybe I oughta beat on your head, see how you like it?"

Thraun smirked, "If you could reach my head, maybe I'd let you."

The small man had more balls than brains. He hit Thraun first in the gut with his left, the surprise of the hit doubling him over. The next came from his right, hard across the young Nord's jaw. One thing Thraun learned about himself in the legion, if the first few hits don't put him down, he's only going to get angry. He retaliated with a hard blow to the Imperial's left temple, which sent him sprawling to the floor immediately. When he looked up, the two had stopped brawling and were making fast for him, as was the Nord from across the hall. The Dunmer woman sat and stared quietly.

Thraun put his hands up in pleading, "Look, he hit me first, I just hit harder." It seemed lost on them. The woman hit him hard across the jaw in the same spot the small man had. Thraun fell to one knee, and the Orc landed a kick to his chest that put him on his back. Dazed but now enraged, he began to rise and retaliate when the older Nord spoke.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"The shithead napping on your floor hit me first. His friends here didn't seem to like it. You greet all your guests with a beating?"

The man laughed out loud, "We're Companions, lad. Fighting is our way of life. You shouldn't take it so personally. That "shithead" you put to sleep is Komas, and he loves to fight more than anyone I've ever seen. He's been known to lay out three or four men in a single go. But you took two hits from him and still didn't go down. Besides that, you laid HIM out with a single blow. I'm impressed."

Thraun rubbed his jaw, rising to his feet.

"You can keep your impressions. All I wanted was to speak to someone about training with the Companions. But if all you've got to offer is a band of drunken brawlers, I'm not impressed."

The man stared into Thraun, taking measure of the person before him. He clasped him on the shoulder and began to laugh.

"Boy, we may have a place for you yet. But that's not for me to decide. I'll let Skjor or the old man have a look at you, but neither of them are here right now."

Thraun sighed, "It makes no difference. I'm leaving tomorrow to fulfill a bounty from the Jarl. I'll be back in a fortnight or less. If not, feel free to assume I'm dead. When I return, I'd be willing to speak to either of the two you named, if they'd be willing to meet me."

"I"m sure they'll be intrigued in the very least, to meet the man who bested Komas with a single blow. Don't fear lad, we'll still be here whether you return or not."

Thraun nodded, "My name's Thraun, should we ever meet again." He extended his arm in greeting.

The man extended his own and took hold, "I'm Stennar. I hope we do." As Thraun made for the door, he called out to the Nord woman.

"Oh, and next time you hit me, you'd better knock me out."

Stennar sighed and spoke, "Lad, are you just trying to fight?"

With due provocation, the Nord woman lashed out at him with her right. Thraun blocked it with his left and hammered her hard in the gut with his right fist. He wrapped his left arm around her right, locking it into place. Like a sack of flour, he turned and tossed her through the doors of the mead hall, and turned to focus on the Orc now returning focus to him. Quick as a striking snake, he kicked him hard in the groin, and turning, kneed him with as much force in his gut. He grabbed him by the throat and tossed him onto the dining table.

The woman had returned, squealing like a banshee, and wrapped her arms around her much larger kinsman. What was she trying to prove, attacking like this? Thraun planted his left elbow into her ribs, and his right struck a hard blow to her face. She was more resilient than the Imperial, who lay undisturbed by everything transpiring around him. His mother always told him that they were bred tough in the north. As her grip loosened, Thraun shook himself free and brought both closed fists hard to her temples, like two clubs striking the head at once, and she slumped to the floor. The orc had managed to rise and was stumbling towards Thraun. Another hard kick, this time to the sternum, ended the confrontation decisively.

"That makes three of my shield siblings you've bested in a day. Boy, when I tell them about this, they might jus seek YOU out." That was all he said before nodding towards the Dunmer woman and exiting out the back. Thraun turned and watched the her approaching him.

"Don't tell me you want to fight, too," he said, his pride still engorged from his victory. When she said nothing, only walking closer and closer, he readied himself for another bout. She only walked calmly past him. He turned to watch her, and was meet with a hard grey fist to his nose. Blinded by the strike, he was confused when she placed two fingers between his shoulder blades, but collapsed after she pressed two more into his neck.

When he awoke the sun had set and the two moons had risen well into the sky. A guard was kicking his shin and muttering something at him. He was still rather dazed.

"Oi, wake up! That's it, wake up you damn drunk, or I'll have you thrown into Dragonsreach Dungeon."

Thraun stirred, and after another pair of kicks he jolted right up. It caught the guard unprepared, and he reached for his sword. Thraun scowled.

"Draw your sword. See what your steel is worth." The guard composed himself.

"Another smart off like that, and me'n some lads will visit you in the dungeon." Thraun gathered his meaning. Nothing would bring him more pleasure than throttling the little weasel, but he had more important, less satisfying responsibilities to attend to.

"I'll be going, then."

"Aye," the guard responded, and Thraun marched slowly down the stairs while the guard went on with his patrol. When he got home and his friends weren't there, he knew there could be only one place.

The Bannered Mare was abuzz with singing and drinking, laughing and boasting. Ralof and Hadvar were at the bar; Ralof was mingling with the barmaid while Hadvar was speaking to a Redguard wench who seemed less than interested.

"Leave her alone, Had. She's got bigger problems to deal with than pretending to be interested in you." Hadvar stink-eyed his friend, but Ralof was more than happy to see him.

"Thraun!" he shouted. "We were worried you must've become a full-fledged Companion and forgotten all about us."

"What happened to you," Hadvar asked, placing a limp finger on Thraun's bruised jaw.

Thraun chuckled, "I think I made some friends." The three of them laughed, and Ralof passed Thraun an ale.

"To your friends!" They all cheered and drank to his accomplishments. The little victories are what really matter, aren't they?

 _9th of First Seed, 4E 189_

Starting a job while still reeling from the festivities of the night before was not something that usually happened to Thraun. However, he had tempered its effects on him after innumerable drinking sessions with Hadvar and Ralof. They would only be walking today anyhow, a much gentler beast than the loud clanging of metal at the forge. He couldn't recall what time they'd actually made it home the night before. Or was it the morning? He didn't bother trying to figure it out. He couldn't tell if the rumbling in his stomach meant he was hungry or that he was about vomit a cask's worth of ale. Once he stood up, he decided on hungry. Ralof was in the other room of the loft, adjacent to the ladder. He hadn't made it into the bed; just slumped right on the floor, sleeping the day away.

He couldn't complain. He was just happy none of them had managed to earn themselves a night in the dungeons. Hadvar was snoring in a chair by the smoldering fireplace, and had drooled heavily onto his tunic. His hair was a matted mess, and he was only wearing one boot. Thraun grabbed a bit of gold from the chest and left for the inn. He decided it might be better to wake them once he'd gotten back, with food. It was well past dawn; if he'd had a septim for every time one of their plans was derailed by a night of drinking, he'd be the richest man in Skyirim. Now that he thought about it, he may have been the richest man in Whiterun.

Nords were friendlier than the imperials Thraun met in Bruma. There were exceptions of course; many of the traders or craftsmen were humble people, and even some of the nobility could be congenial. He thought of the Countess…and her daughter whom he would have married. Confessing to Hadvar and Ralof about what led him to Skyrim allowed him to find some measure of peace, though not nearly enough. Aside from the injustice done to his family and the desecration of his homestead, he was robbed of his future with Arianna.

The first woman he had ever loved: a slender little golden-haired Imperial lady, though he admired more than her beauty. Someone who didn't know her might've though she was a Nord: she was fierce, and she knew it. She would have to govern her people someday, and she wasn't wasting any time being a child. She was intelligent but not domineering, fair but firm, loyal but not blind. She would have been a good wife, and he would have loved her, always.

Anger filled him as he entered the inn. In his cell, the elves stole many things from him. His dignity, his humanity, and for a while, his sanity. But looking back over all of it, the worst thing they had stolen from him was any possibility of a happy life with her. A life where he fathered her children, where his mother got to grow old and die in peace. Where his brother and sister were still in his life. He had no doubt that Arianna had other suiters lined up after he was gone. She was a future countess, after all. Certain things were expected of her. Marrying her was an impossible dream.

His thoughts then rushed back to his dreams. Even knowing what he knew now, he couldn't understand why he kept having the recurring dream of the elves. What connection was he not making? His reasoning was, if he was still having these dreams, perhaps someone was still hunting him? The elves had found him once before: it was only after being released from their custody that he started having the dream. Maybe he was placing too much stock in them.

"Can I get you a drink?" the publican asked, as she had many times the night before.

"No thank you," he declined with a smile. "I'm here to settle my bill from last night, and buy some breakfast. How much do I owe you?"

She seemed puzzled by his inquiry.

"Your tab has already been settled," she responded. "An elderly man came in and paid it in full. He seemed to know you pretty well. I don't remember him from last night, but he knew your name. He left you this." She handed a roughly scrawled note from under the counter. He nodded his thanks and she went on cleaning her pint as he moved to sit at a table.

 _Meet me outside when you're ready_.

No one was outside when he went. At least, no one he wasn't expecting. The stalls had opened, and everyone had already begun selling their goods. He started to search around before an audible "psst" rang in his ears. When he looked in the direction it came from, a familiar grey cloak flourished as it moved behind the alchemy shop. When he rounded the corner, a staff met his chest and thrust his back against the wall of the building.

"Have you not been paying attention?" the old man seemed…on edge. There was an emerging wildness in his eyes that made Thraun uneasy.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded, pushing his walking stick away.

"They're coming for you! Can you not understand that?"

"Who's coming?" he replied indifferently. He wasn't ready to give credence to the old man's words.

"Why do you think you've been having dreams?" the old man started. "The "assassins" who were sent after your father, are coming for you. They have been charged with eliminating your family line. The one whom you seem dead set on violently murdering was chief among the elves sent to kill your father. When he took you from your home, he did not know who you were, but he knows now. The son of the last known Grandmaster of the Blades, and someone whom they think is destined to destroy the Thalmor. It's miraculous they didn't discover you sooner…"

Thraun stopped listening as the old man went on. He couldn't believe it: his _father_ was Grandmaster of the Blades? Coming to Skyrim had offered no shortage of revelations about the truth of his family. It was as if his family history was a chasm, the depths of which he hadn't reached, but others kept discovering or revealing things that he had never known. He stopped the Odin in the middle of his thought to interject.

"My mother told me that my father was a Legate in the Imperial Legion. That he died in Cyrodiil before the Imperial City was sacked."

Odin nodded his agreement, "Indeed he did, but I'm afraid there's a great many things your mother never told you about your father's life. Or hers, for that matter. But you must understand, all that your mother did, she did to protect her children. To spare you any pain. You had always assumed your father had only ever been a legionnaire. It was only in his twilight years that he joined the Legion."

His head was spinning. He was both furious and curious. His whole world had been turned upside down. All that he believed he knew about his family could now be called into question.

"Then what did he do before the war?" he asked almost immediately.

"Would you like a summary of your father's life? Do you not understand that there are other things requiring your immediate attention? The preservation of your life among them."

Thraun had tired of hearing the old man tell him what he thought he should do with his own life.

"Tell me the truth about my father, or I will never hear a word from you again."

"Thraun, I-"

"TELL ME!" he shouted, his anger boiling over at last. "Tell me why, if you know all this about my family, if you have the power to see into the past, why you did not give my family warning. How could you let them suffer?" His anger began to give way to his own despair. "How could you let _me_ suffer?"

"My master felt it important you gained perspective."

"But was it important that my mother be stabbed in the back? That my brother and sister burned alive? Surely I must be cursed if I live long, yet my siblings who had done no wrong are wronged so profoundly. Oh, but at least you came to warn me now," he spoke, venom dripping from every word. "But my mother and siblings weren't worthy in the mind of your master, so you abandoned them."

"I tried to keep your family from Cyrodiil, many decades before you were born. I came to your father's father in another form; I begged him to abandon Cyrodiil. To look to the north and raise his son there. He didn't listen to me anymore than you have. So I stayed with him, or rather, I stayed hidden on his property and waited. I looked after him, his wife, his infant son. I cast all manner of protective enchantments on his property, and I walked the grounds constantly, in one shape or another. This went on for weeks, until one night they came: assassins from Summerset. I tried to take them myself, but they were far too numerous, and when a wayward fireball shook your grandfather's house, beckoning him into the fray, I knew I had failed my mission once more. One of them found their way into his house, while we were distracted. He killed your grandmother, but searched everywhere for your infant father. Your grandfather Dathorn struck him down, and turned his body into pulp before my very eyes. The elf hadn't realized your grandmother had been shielding your father from the assassin's blade."

"I convinced him at last that leaving was the right thing, and I stood watch as he buried his wife. When we made for the border, I realized we were being pursued by more of them. I offered to stay behind and fend them off, but he thrust the babe into my arms and commanded me to ride on. I didn't have time to protest before he kissed his son and rode back into the fog. I hesitated a moment before riding on. I made my way to Skyrim, purchased Breezehome, and raised your father as **_my_** son. He would not know me as you do. To him I was Reyon Menuelle, an aged Breton from High rock. Before I died, I told your father that he must join the Blades, that someday he would avenge them, even if it was known only to himself. Those passing words put him on the path to meeting your mother, to becoming a great warrior, and to bringing you into this world."

"I have done more for your family than you can possibly conceive. And how have I been rewarded for my service? To be scorned by those whom I'm trying to help? I have died peacefully and violently, among friends and surrounded by enemies. All for the sake of you. All the time I have been away I have been watching you, wondering if it was all some elaborate joke. My sacrifices, my years, decades, centuries of service, to ensure that the path to you was lain bare, and what have you done with my handiwork? I will tell you this, I will not give my life for your family any longer. I will have my soul prostrated before the World Eater before I harken to the whim of a boy several hundred years more ignorant than I!"

The old man sighed and his anger seemed to diminish, "If I were alive, I would have tried to help you, Thraun. Truly, I would have. But my master's whim took me elsewhere, and I must obey him.

Thraun scowled at the old man's blind loyalty, "If your master commands you to abandon good, honest people to a horrible death, then he is evil, and you do not strike me as an evil man."

"I am not, nor is my master!" he countered. "Everything I do, everything I have ever done since I took my last breath and was born again as this shapeshifter, has been to prepare the way for you. I have lived a thousand lives on this continent, all to ensure that people are where they need to be, whether to live or to die, because like it or not you are simply that damn important! I will not be lectured by a boy whose life is a mere blink next to mine! You cannot even comprehend what I have endured to see that you survived as long as you have. I know now that I can scarcely tell you what to do. I can only do my best to prepare you for what is to come, and perhaps warn you of any danger. That is why I came today."

"If I'm at such a risk of being found, why haven't you come to me sooner?"

"You've never stopped being in danger. Only recently has the immediate danger shifted. I know why your thoughts linger on Cyrodiil. I tell you, you must forget them. Leaving Skyrim on a mission of vengeance will be your undoing. In time, what you seek will come to you."

His heart was still set on avenging his family. He was alive for a reason. He wouldn't let anyone stop him from having his vengeance.

As if reading his mind, Odin counseled,

"You have been given a second chance, unlike so many before you. I tell you, if you leave now, you will not be able to defeat him: he has more experience, more resources, and too many under his command for you to oppose. Believe me, he wants to see you dead just as badly as you him, but going after him now would be suicide. You must have patience."

Thraun glance sideways at the old man. Who was lecturing who now?

"It still seems to me there are quite a few loose ends about my parents' pasts," he started. "Will you tell me about them now? Or will it be several more months before we speak again?"

"We will talk again much sooner, Thraun," he assured him. "When you return from this bounty, you will receive many answers about their past, but not from me."

The old man passed out of sight before his very eyes; his brain couldn't explain what his eyes had seen. Deciding to put his trust in him, after revealing so much, he returned to Breezehome, though not before returning to the inn for apples and three morning ales. Hadvar had stopped drooling, and Ralof remained asleep in the upstairs guest room. Thraun roused them both for breakfast, tossing an apple onto Hadvar's lap to wake him. Ralof cautiously descended the ladder form upstairs, stumbling into the entryway and ravenously chomping into an apple.

"What time is it?" he asked, sleepily.

"Pasht noon," Thraun replied with a mouth full of fruit.

"Hmph," Hadvar started. "So much for leaving at dawn."


	10. Chapter 10: Lifeline

Chapter 10: Lifeline

 _9th of First Seed, 4E 189_

There weren't enough horses for the three of them to purchase, so rather than one of them looking like a twit, they all decided to walk. How could a stable master even call himself that with only two horses? This trip would take longer than Thraun first guessed, but he really had no where to be. Besides, it'd give Ralof time to practice with the bow he'd been stressing over. It also meant he could mull things over.

For the first time since meeting him, he was not utterly displeased to have seen the old man. Granted, he **_hated_** the thought of Odin's deliberate neglect of his family's well being, but it seemed that he was the only person who could shed some light on the truth of it all. He'd made the mistake of sending him away before, and he would not do it again.

His father had been grandmaster of the blades? Perhaps that would explain the cellar. But every answer seemed to spark two more questions. How did he escape the burning of the temple? How did he survive the purge? How did he become a Legate of the Imperial Legion so quickly?

By the gods, what else was there? His mother had _lied_ to him! Or at least, she hadn't been truthful on the whole. And the old man had actually raised his father? He'd like to know more about that. And how did they get all that gold? Then there's the Thalmor: they thought _he_ was the one to destroy them? Based on little more than prophecy? After what they took from him, he'd be happy to try.

As they moved westward away from the city, through the tall grass and tundra of the hold, they all felt so small. Riverwood and Helgen were confined by trees, and more prominently, mountains that touched the clouds. There were stone roads and signs; you'd have to be a moron to get lost. But here they could see for miles ahead and still not know quite where they were going, or what might meet them along the way.

Thraun imagined the days of old, of the times he'd read about in his books back home, when dragons ruled over Skyrim. Perhaps he stood where there was once a great battle between man and dragon. What warriors they must've been, a courage long lost in many of his fellow soldiers. Not to say all of them were cravens, but he didn't know how many of his former comrades could keep from soiling themselves if they ever saw a dragon. Perhaps they did back then too?

"Didn't the Jarl say the bandits were north of Whiterun?" Hadvar spoke suddenly.

"Aye?" he responded.

"This charter says the bandits are at Redoran's Retreat, which is _west_ of Whiterun."

"He didn't get to be the Jarl because he was good with directions, Had," Ralof responded with a snort. "He got the job because his daddy sat in the chair before him."

"It doesn't matter," Thraun started. "We've been heading west since we left Whiterun. The Jarl just misspoke."

"How far is it then?" Hadvar inquired.

Thraun shrugged, "It might've been two, three days on horseback. Walking? Double it, give or take a day since we got a late start. We have enough food for maybe two. We'll run out of water by tonight if we don't use it sparingly. Ralof only has 30 arrows, and we're gonna need some of them to hunt. How have you taken to the bow?"

"The draw weight's a bit more than I'm used to, but I think I can manage. I've never shot with anything this nice." He pulled an arrow from the quiver and examined it before them. "These bodkins are made of ebony, the shafts cedar. These look like falcon feathers in the fletching. They're lighter than steel arrows: they'll travel faster and farther, and will probably stick better. What I've lost in the bow is made up for by the arrow."

"I'll keep that in mind the first time you miss the deer," Thraun joked.

"I won't miss," Ralof assured him. "I never have."

Something far to their right caught his eye. A sudden motion that his companions had missed completely. It was light brown, blending well with the high grass of the early spring plains. He saw it, and it was gone. It didn't look like an animal...

"The sun's going down," Hadvar started, interrupting his thought. "We should make camp here."

Thraun scanned the horizon briefly before responding.

"Aye," he agreed. ""Let's look for something to get a fire going. We should eat and turn in early. Tomorrow we really will start at dawn."

In the dying light, the trio cut branches from a nearby tree (a fortuitous find in the vastness of Whiterun's plains). They plucked some of the high grass for tinder, and had a fire going by dusk. It was apples again for dinner; they decided to save their dry meat for tomorrow. Thraun would take the lead westward, as his legionnaire's training proved advantageous for navigation. Over the next few days, Thraun shared as much as he knew with Hadvar about tracking, fighting, and how to survive in the Legion. It was apparent that Hadvar still had his doubts about Thraun's story, but he was willing to learn from someone who had actual experience. If he was adamant on joining, Thraun wanted his friend to have every advantage. It was the least he could do to reconcile.

Ralof mostly remained on the margins while they moved, staying low and scouting ahead with his bow in pursuit of game. Thraun didn't like him going off alone: since their first day he'd had an uneasy feeling they were being stalked. He had only glimpsed it once, but there was something distinctly human about the way the brown blur moved. Every bump in the night, be it the distant hoot of an owl or shuffle of his friends on their bedrolls, had him grabbing for his blade. His kinsmen laughed at him, but if there was one thing the legion had taught him, it was that there was no such thing as _too_ cautious.

Besides his uneasy feeling, he knew better than to think they were the top predators on the grasslands. Besides the obvious wolves and the saber cats (which they were fortunate enough to have not crossed paths with as of yet), there were other people out and about. Thruan had elected to stay off the roads for that very reason; midnight paths were a prime target for bandits looking to ambush unsuspecting victims.

As an added worry, he knew the moment they brought down a deer, their chances of encountering a hungry predator would greatly increase. The three of them were no match for a hungry wolf pack, especially if they were to attack at night. Thraun had heard tales from seasoned hunters in the legion, of a saber cat being ravenous enough to attack a caravan. Beasts were beasts, but they weren't all stupid: they understand simple truths. A group of many has a greater chance of victory over the one. They stay true to their nature. They don't push themselves beyond their limits. A wild animal would need to be truly desperate to do that, and a desperate thing was a dangerous thing.

It was beneficial that he was such a light sleeper; his time in the Thalmor's custody had bred that in him. If he slept lighter, he was more alert and he could better prepare himself for whatever tortures might be coming. It'd been months since he was freed, but he still wasn't able to break the habit. Even when he stayed with Alvor in Riverwood, knowing he was relatively safe, he never slept easily. Anything irregular would wake him, and he could be up quick as a whip with his sword at the ready.

They had followed a shallow creek most of the way west from Whiterun. Thraun tried to never stray too far, as it was the only viable water source around. This night, its steady flow now served as a lullaby for the weary Nord. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the harder he tried, the more tired he became. He stared heavy-eyed into the fire, eyes fluttering in a feeble attempt to remain awake. When he could no longer grapple with the urge, he closed his eyes for the last, and the night washed over him.

 _14th First Seed, 4E 189_

He awoke before dawn, roused from his sleep by the troubled neigh of a northern horse. It was distant, yet near enough to trouble him. In the early morning darkness, he couldn't see clearly, and last night's fire had already turned to embers. He grabbed his sword and wrapped a torn piece of cloth from his tunic around the tip of his blade. Dipping it in the coals, he coaxed a flame to latch onto the fibers, and he cautiously moved towards the noise. The commotion had awoken Ralof.

"What're you doing?"

Thraun turned with a start and nearly put the fire right into his friend's eyes.

"Gods, Ralof. I could've skewered you!"

"Why is your sword on fire?" he questioned. By this point Hadvar was stirring.

"There's someone out there; I heard a horse. Keep your guard up, both of you." As he turned to go away, Hadvar woke up fully.

"Where does he think he's going?" he asked Ralof sleepily.

"Says he heard a horse and he's going to investigate. We haven't met a single other person this entire way. You really think somethin's out there?"

Hadvar chuckled, "I wouldn't doubt him. The last time he went off into the night like that he came back with a dead man over his shoulder."

Thraun walked about a hundred yards from their campground, up a shallow rise. He stopped about halfway up to extinguish his torch. It was near enough to dawn that he could see without it. He slowly crept to the top; he could hear a voice coming from somewhere on the other side. When he had summited, he saw a slender figure at the bottom, hooded and cloaked. He couldn't tell if it was a woman or a very slim man. Whoever it was tending to the horse, stroking her muzzle and aiming to soothe her.

Thraun slipped down the hill as quietly as he could; the figure's back was away from him, and he wanted to apprehend them. He had to be extra careful not to alert the horse, lest she be spooked and give him away. Fortunately her focus was on the person, and he came ever closer to grabbing them. However, the wind suddenly changed in an unfavorable direction, and the horse caught his scent, becoming spooked. The person turned to see Thraun rushing, and leapt onto the panicking mare, riding fast away from him. He now confirmed it: they were being followed.

Fortunately, if he navigated correctly, they were less than a day's walk from the cave. He wanted to find cover as quickly as possible. Perhaps he could lure whoever this was into the Redoran's Retreat (after they had eliminated the bandits of course) and apprehend them. He returned to the campsite, and his companions had already packed up, ready to move on. They had reached the entrance by noon. It was adorned with some tattered cloth bearing a faded sigil. Had they formed a house?

Ralof and Hadvar both bore looks of uneasiness. Thraun understood it well: the first time he went on a mission like this with the legion, he no doubt looked the same. But they had never truly fought, much less _killed_ for that matter, in any battles. Thraun however had fought so often, he couldn't remember how many mens' lives he'd taken. A sad thing to say about a man not even twenty, but it was true.

"Brothers," he said suddenly. "I don't know what you're thinking, but let me read you something."

He pulled the bounty from his pack and unfolded it. Clearing his throat, he began:

" _By order of his Lordship Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun,"_

 _"To all able bodied men and women of Whiterun. The bandits believed to be harboring in Redoran's Retreat face the following charges: harassment, robbery, rape, and murder, and are hereby sentenced to death. A reward of 1,000 Septims will be gifted to the party or individual who brings them to justice."_

Refolding the note, he placed it back in his pack with care.

"Make no mistake," he started, "we are here to kill these men. Not capture or apprehend them, kill them. It's not a light thing, it's not an easy thing to face. It's not something you can ever forget. But they made their choice. Don't let their deaths weigh heavily on you: if given the choice, they'd kill you without a second thought. Follow my lead. Stay close, move slowly, and until you have to engage someone, stay as low as you can. If we're quiet, we might be able to get the drop on a few of them. I don't know how many are in there, so we need to capitalize on every potential advantage."

"Ralof, you'll be leading. If you have a clear shot on anyone, you take it. Had and I have got your back. If we're outnumbered from the start, use any distance you can. Put an arrow in anyone within 30 feet of us. If they should get too close, draw your axe, and we form up: back to back to back. Understood?"

His friends acknowledged him with a nod, both eager to follow his command.

The cave welcomed them with chilly air and the earthy smell of wet stone and dirt. Torches lit their way deeper into the hideout. They spotted the first man easy enough; Ralof put an arrow in his back. What they didn't hear or see or smell was the damn dog that was right beside him. Growling and barking, its furs standing on end over its shoulders. A pissed off wolf was bad enough to deal with, but a wolfhound was not a foe to be faced lightly. Hadvar charged with his shield raised, blocking the dog's jaws as it leapt towards him. Thraun sliced at its back legs while its focus was on Had, and thrust his blade between its ribs to end its suffering. An arrow flew passed their heads, and planted itself into the chest of another brigand, who slumped hard to the ground, dead. Thraun nodded his thanks to his bow-wielding companion, and the three moved on, slowly and quietly. Perhaps this wouldn't be too difficult after all?

The hallways leading deeper into the cave narrowed as they went further down, and Thraun halted their advance before entering into the deepest chamber. It was smaller than the first, but he cold hear more men inside. He had taken the lead over from Ralof as he didn't want his less experienced kinsmen to be taken by surprise in a narrow space. Thraun had fought in places like this many times, so it only made sense.

There was a wall of stone near the center of the chamber, and there was a large opening through which he saw two men. One stood with his back facing them. He was an orc, tall and well muscled, a battleaxe leaned against the stone wall to his side. He was well armored, covered head to toe in steel. He saw a smaller man squatted by the fire, poking at a roasting goat leg, his lust for its succulent flesh shown clearly on his face. Their lack of awareness was laughable. A third he could not see, but spoke to his comrades from a corner to their left. Thraun signaled for his friends to move back, taking cover in the corridor before the chamber.

"I see two by the fire. Ralof, you take the one squatting. Put an arrow in his back. Hadvar, I hear a third on our left, do you hear him? As soon as Ralof shoots, you make for him. I'll go right and make for the chief."

The three positioned themselves, and Thraun gave Ralof the signal. Ralof's arrow found its mark, and the bandit who was draped in nothing but white and brown furs fell forward right into the fire. Thraun and Hadvar rushed forth, charging in different directions. As Hadvar engaged his man, Thraun ran smack into a bandit he had not seen or heard, standing in the right corner. Knowing full well he would need to be dealt with before moving on to the Orc, he struck. He stabbed at the bandit's midsection, who deftly moved his torso to dodge the strike. He reached for a dagger, but his hand was caught by Thraun's left. He brought his sword sideways to decapitate his foe, who ducked under his blade. He landed a hard punch at Thraun's jaw with his free hand, and raised his dagger, slashing at Thraun, and meant to stab down into his chest. Thraun raised his sword, blocking the stab before it truly became a stab, and pushed the outlaw's hand away from him. He smacked him hard on the nose with the pommel of his sword, and brought it around to stab him in his gut. He pushed it in deeper, backing the bandit against a wall.

Seeing as Thraun had been delayed, Hadvar decided to engage the chief on his own. Ralof remained in the entryway, ready to cover either of his friends with a swift, sharp arrow. As the man slumped dying at Thraun's feet, he heard Hadvar's charge and turned to see his friend rushing the brute.

'Hadvar, what are you doing? You don't even have your shield up!' Thraun screamed in his mind as his kinsman sloppily engaged the Orc. He swung wide, his target ducking easily under his blade. As he brought it back around, the Orc batted it away with the shaft of his axe, and backhand smacked Hadvar hard across his right jaw. Dazed, he grabbed Hadvar by the throat and pulled him in close, biting hard into his shoulder. Hadvar wailed at the feeling, hitting and scratching at the Orc to release him. Once he had tasted as much as he cared for, he practically tossed Hadvar into the rock wall behind him. His head landed with a grisly "smack" and he fell limp at its base. The Orc raised his axe to strike him down, and Thraun thought certainly that his friend was lost.

Ralof fired a shot, hoping to save his friend's life. The arrow plinked harmlessly off the Orc's hardy armor, but he had gotten his attention. He rounded the corner, drawing his axe as he came, raising it to strike horizontally at their enemy. The orc easily blocked his strike, and used the head of his axe to bring Ralof's arm down and away to the Orc's right, ripping Ralof's weapon away from him. While he was still off balanced, he brought the back of his weapon hard into Ralof's gut. Doubling over in pain, he could do nothing to defend himself from another hard blow to his back, sending him practically diving to the ground.

Once his foe was sufficiently dead, Thraun moved to save his friends. As the Orc brought his axe down to finish off Ralof, Thraun intervened, blocking his strike with his sword. He grabbed hold of the axe and pulled him close, head-butting the brute and kicking him away, putting some distance between them. He moved away from his unconscious friends, so they couldn't be harmed in their wake.

The Orc charged and brought his axe down on Thraun, who easily sidestepped the maneuver. 'Why do the brutes always strike down?' he thought to himself. He brought his sword around to decapitate his foe, who ducked under the sweep. He smashed Thraun in the ribs with the back of his axehead, and landed another blow with the handle hard onto his chest, the force of the hit causing him to drop his sword.

He brought the axe around his head, striking at Thraun's midsection. He backed away from the slash, and the Orc brought it around once more before striking down at Thraun, who stepped away from the blow. The axe planted in the ground, and Thraun grabbed the handle while the Orc labored to withdraw it. Thraun struck him in the jaw with his right, and the chief responded with a blow of his own across Thraun's left cheek. He brought his axe up, forcing Thraun's release, and hammered it down again. Thraun grabbed hold of the shaft just below the axehead, and again lower down the handle when the chief brought it up to bash him in the gut.

The two grappled for a minute before Thraun pulled him in with the axe handle and kneed him in the groin. He punched him in the jaw again, and continued to grapple with him, swinging him around until their positions had switched. Both of them stared into the other's eyes, equally loathing the other. Thraun could taste his own blood in his mouth: the Orc hit hard, he was damn sure of that. His foe seemed to be bleeding as well, or it may have been his friend's blood still dripping from his jaws. They wrestled for a few moments more before Thraun sucked as much blood into his mouth as he could, and spat into the Orc's eyes. He loosened his grip on the axe handle, and Thraun pushed it hard into his gut, then brought it up striking him under the chin. As the orc stumbled back, a steel tip suddenly and violently emerged protruding through his throat, splattering blood on Thraun's face. He grabbed at his neck in vain, and winced as he collapsed onto the dirt of the cave.

A woman stood before him, bow drawn. He recognized her hair.


	11. Chapter 11 The Huntress

***A/N* This is one more long one. As always, I appreciate everyone who reads, and thanks to those who've left remarks of admiration or support. You know who you are. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!**

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She had an arrow nocked, pointed right at his chest.

"You?" Thraun stammered. "You're the one who's been following us?"

She said nothing, merely glowering at him. Her armor did little to hide her athletic build, and her auburn hair flowed gracefully down to her shoulders. He'd seen that hair before: the day they left Whiterun. Thraun dropped the orc's axe, placing his hands up in submission.

"Who are you?" She asked finally.

"I could ask the same of you," Thraun retorted.

"I'm the one with the bow. You answer my questions, unless you want to end up like the Orc."

"Easy," he pleaded, not wanting to piss her off. "I came to exterminate these bandits. I was accompanied by the two unconscious gentlemen here, the big one bleeding from the shoulder, and the blond one there." He pointed out his two friends, still unconscious. She glanced at both of them, but kept her bow drawn and ready. "Here," he reached for his boot, thinking he had kept the copy of the letter there as he'd intended. Then he remembered he had put it in his pack, which he left outside with the rest of their supplies. Her arrow followed every move.

"I left my pack outside. The bounty letter from the Jarl is in it. When we leave, I'll show it to you," he said ambitiously, hoping he wouldn't be found there in that cave someday with an arrow in his skull.

"Can I?" He nodded towards Hadvar, who was slumped on the cave floor and bleeding from the back of the head.

"You're not bandits?" she questioned.

"How'd you figure that?"

"Bandits don't give a shit about what happens to other bandits." She lowered her bow, and Thraun went to kneel beside his friend. His breaths were slow, and a prominent bump was already forming on the back of his head. The bleeding from his shoulder had slowed, but damn did that orc bite deep. He would have a scar there, to be sure. Thraun didn't know what to do to revive him, and he didn't know how he could help him. He began to panic, when the girl handed him a phial filled with a familiar red liquid. He nodded his appreciation, and popped the top.

Rolling Hadvar onto his back, he propped his head up on his knee and poured the elixir into his mouth, massaging his throat to aid his swallowing. Amazingly, his wounds on his head and neck stopped bleeding immediately and closed almost entirely. The swelling on his head began to lessen, and he even opened his eyes. What the alchemists were able to brew was truly fascinating.

"Easy Had, easy. Take it slow. Try not to move too much."

"Wha? Thraun...what happened?" He barely managed to speak.

"You attacked the orc like a damn fool, that's what happened. How many times do I have to tell you to keep your shield up before you actually do it? He beat your head like a drum."

"Where's Ralof?" he asked.

Thraun had nearly forgotten his other kinsman, who lay unmoving only feet from him.

"Stay still," he warned Hadvar. Ralof wasn't bleeding, but he had taken a hard hit on the back. Thraun rolled him over; his breaths were slow, but an indignant groan at the move reassured Thraun that he was, for the most part, alright. He shook him until his eyes fluttered a bit, then slapped his face until they opened completely.

"I get knocked out, and your first bloody instinct is to slap me awake?"

"I think you would favor it, with the other option being I pissed on you," Thraun said, frowning. "Does anything feel broken? What hurts?"

"My pride mostly," he responded.

"Good," Thraun started, smirking, "nothing major."

Ralof tried to sit up, and Thraun took his hand, supporting his back with the other. He winced when he placed his hand on it, the area still tender from the orc's savage blow. He lifted his shirt, revealing a large black bruise that had already formed, bound by ruptured blood vessels.

"You're lucky your back didn't break," Thraun said, almost in awe of his friend's resilience. He turned to the girl, who had begun snooping around the chamber.

"Have you got any more of those?"

She quickly tossed him another without much thought, still looking the place over. Ralof took it easier than Hadvar, and afterwards managed to stand (with a little help from Thraun. He felt a bit of tightness in his abdomen, but maintained that he could walk. They each took an arm and hoisted Hadvar, slowly walking him out. The girl followed behind them.

Her mare was tied to a rock formation outside, chewing plainly on some dry grass. The afternoon sun was rapidly descending. It was going to be cool tonight, and they were almost out of food. Even after the healing potions, Thraun knew his friends wouldn't be able to travel as quickly. The girl had a horse, so she'd be back in no time, and they'd be left to fend for themselves once more.

Thraun was weary of her. He did not know her, he had not requested her intervention, but here she was. Besides Hadvar and Ralof, only a few others knew where he'd gone. The Jarl, who gave him the bounty in the first place. The old man, who just knew things, though Thraun didn't think any direct support from him would be likely. He said Thraun would get his answers _after_ the bounty had been completed, not before. And then there was Stennar, the greying man from the companions. That must be; perhaps she would explain why she came. He and Ralof walked Hadvar to a boulder and sat him down, and Ralof grabbed his canteen from his bag for him.

"I think you should see to that," she said, pointing to his arm. He looked and his eyes grew wide: his right forearm had a sizable cut in it, and blood had run down the length of it and dried. In all the commotion he hadn't even felt the bandits dagger that cut him. Evidently he wasn't as quick as he had first thought.

"Damn, damn, damn! Have you got any more of those potions?" Her shaking head affirmed fears.

"Shit," he started. Why hadn't he thought to bring any potions himself? He could afford them now, so that wasn't an excuse. He couldn't leave it, or it would become infected. He grabbed his canteen from his pack and emptied it over the wound, cleaning out the blood. He tore off the sleeve of his tunic and wrapped it. On top of everything, he was now _completely_ out of water.

"How far do you think the two of could make it?" he posed to his friends.

"I think we might ought to just stay in here for the night," Ralof suggested. "Give Hadvar a bit more time to heal."

"I can walk till dusk if we go slow," Hadvar answered. "I don't think we'll make it very far, but I can travel."

"Your friend's right," the girl said calmly. "Your packs look light, meaning your low on food. You've all been injured; you should take today to rest and move on tomorrow."

Thraun rolled his eyes, "The creek changed direction about ten miles east of here. It's the last place we filled up, so it's the nearest place we can get water. We'll have to try to make it there by tonight to refill our canteens. We'll follow it back to Whiterun."

"There's a pond on the other side of this rise," she began. "I watered my horse there before stopping here. I can have a deer hunted and butchered for supper before dusk."

"I have no arguments," Ralof responded. Hadvar managed a tired nod, but Ralof made sure he stayed awake. Thraun reluctantly agreed; perhaps they were right. He turned to confront the girl, who had already untied and mounted her horse.

"Who are you, my lady?" he asked.

She smirked, "Calling me 'my lady' would be as incorrect as calling you 'sir'."

Thraun disregarded her answer to delve deeper.

"Why are you here? Why are you so eager to help us?"

"You caused quite the stir in Jorvaskr the other day," she answered. He could tell there was more she wanted to say. He didn't recall seeing her in the mead hall when he had passed through. However, he was convinced that she must have been a Companion.

"How do you know that?"

She smirked again, "According to the Circle, the one who came into our halls and battered my shield siblings was, "A tall and black haired lad, scrawny for his size. That seems to match you fairly well. Stennar told us your name; it was the same one your friend uttered when he saw you."

She turned her horse and rode away from them in search of game. Ralof helped Hadvar back down into the chamber, and Thraun took their canteens and walked over the hill where she had pointed. Sure enough, there was water there, but it was little more than a puddle. They'd have to boil this water if they wanted to drink it, otherwise they'd probably get dysentery. Hopefully the bandits had some sort of kettle inside.

He brought in their packs and set them in a corner. The bandits had a small assortment of liquors on a shelf in the upper chamber, mostly ales and meads. There were a few apples and other assorted vegetables collected in barrels, and the inner chamber was furnished with nicer bedrolls than what they'd brought with them. Thraun brought as much as he could into the lower level, to keep his kinsmen off their feet. If they were going to stay tonight, he would have them well rested for tomorrow.

Thraun was growing hungry himself. After a five days of apples, the thought of a bloody cut of meat lingered on his mind. He passed the time any way he could; he couldn't leave the chamber in case his friends needed him. He piled the bodies of the dead in a corner, taking any gold they had on them. The chest by the fire held a bit of gold as well, so he added what was in their purses to the pile. By whatever means they acquired this gold, he was certain they were not honorable. Or more importantly, legal. He collected their weapons and stacked them beside their former owners.

The Jarl had requested their heads be brought back to be mounted on spikes outside the city walls. Barbaric, but an effective tactic. However, he was probably anticipating they'd have them much quicker than Thraun was able to get them. They'd be stinking rotten by the time they'd returned to Whiterun. He decided he would only take one: the less stink, the better. The Jarl would be assured in their success if he brought the chief's head back. He pulled his body from the pile, and used his own axe to take his head off. He removed his helmet, and placed his head in his empty pack.

From inside the chamber, he heard the doors creak open above him. He grabbed his sword and went towards the top: he wasn't risking anything by assuming it was the girl. Evidently she had the same idea about who might be in the cave, as he turned the corner to face a drawn bow. They each lowered their weapons upon realizing who the other was.

"That's twice now you've had an arrow ready for me," Thraun remarked.

"Third time's the charm," she said. "I was coming to get you. Can you help me with the stag?"

Outside the sun had not yet set. Thraun was surprised: it felt like hours had passed down in the pit. He was also impressed that she kept her word. Killed and butchered before dusk; she was halfway there. There was a freshly killed deer laying across her mare's back. She must've been strong to have lifted it on there herself. It wasn't a small doe, but rather a large buck. Even Thraun struggled to lift it off.

He carried it down the passageway over his shoulders, two legs in each hand, and rest it upon a raised wooden area in the upper chamber. He cursed for having over exerted himself: his wound had reopened and would require further washing and wrapping. The girl told him to go on and take care of it and she'd dress the deer. As he wrapped another piece of clothe around his arm, he again tried to engage her.

"So the Companions had you follow me?"

"No one commands anyone in the Companions," she responded. "The Circle suggested someone should follow you to examine your worth. I volunteered."

"So you're treating this like a test?" he questioned. "How did I do?"

"Stennar vouched for you immediately, but the others weren't as convinced. Skjor was furious after your little display, and the old man was concerned.

"The old man? Stennar said something about an old man when I met him. Who is he?"

She perked up, withdrawing her dagger from the buck's gut and planting it in the wood.

"Kodlak? He's the Harbinger, sort of an adviser for the group. He keeps us in line, and from getting too fat on ale and meat. He's like a father to us all: stern in his judgements, slow to anger, but quick to forgive. And a fiercer warrior you've never met, believe me. Aside from maybe Skjor, Kodlak's the strongest we have."

"I'm eager to meet them," Thraun responded.

A long mischievous grin began to grow on her. Had he said something funny?

"I wouldn't be too eager," she answered. "Kodlak can be friendly enough, when he wants to be. But Skjor? Well…he's never been quick to make friends."

"Why did you say Skjor was furious?"

"He was hardly thrilled that you thrashed three of his shield siblings, and he wasn't there to intervene…or to watch. But don't take it too personally. He wasn't pleased with the Companions you bested either. Three Companions against any lone fighter should be an easy victory on their part, but you throttled three strong warriors. Not our strongest, but we don't let just anyone into the Companions."

"Then I ought to be a shoo-in, hadn't I?" he said confidently. His burst of pride made her frown and she went back to skinning the buck.

"That is for the Circle to decide," she replied flatly. Thraun sensed she was put off and went to check on his friends. He grabbed a pair of ales off the shelf as he went.

Ralof was sitting on a crate by the fire. He had stoked the it high, and Hadvar sat calmly watching his active kinsman, eyes dully staring into the flames. Thraun kicked him as he walked by, and Hadvar shook from his daydream, handing him a bottle.

"Are you alright?" Thraun asked.

Hadvar nodded, "I am, thanks." No one was very talkative this evening.

He rapped Ralof on the shoulder and gave him the other bottle

"I want the fire to be ready for her," he explained. "I'm getting hungry. I didn't think I would be, considering..."

"Aye, I wasn't very hungry after my first raid either," Thraun responded. "You handled yourself well."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to take that," he answered, uncorking the bottle and taking a long swig.

"Take it as the truth, brother," Thraun reassured him. "Without you, Hadvar very well may have died today. I may have died trying to take on too many of them. I told you it was no easy thing, killing another man, and dwelling on it will not make your burden any easier."

"I know," Ralof answered. "I do. But no matter what I think my mind brings me back here. I killed _three_ men. I pulled the string back and let the arrow fly. I stand here, and a _person_ dies over there. You know what frightens me? I keep comparing the experience to killing a deer. It's not that different. The sound the arrow makes as it leaves the string and flies through the air. The sound it makes going into flesh. How do you forget that? How do you not relive every instance?"

Thraun had seen this among his young comrades in the legion. The grief; lamenting someone you know deserved their end.

Thraun sighed, "You want the awful truth? I can't remember how many men I've killed in my life. I've killed eight men since I came to Skyrim. Before that, gods alone know. Dozens. Every now and then, I see their faces. They don't haunt me, but I'm reminded that they're there. That they were people. That is what I focus on, Ralof. Not the quantity. I focus on the _reason_ why they had to die."

"And that brings you peace?" he questioned, a frightened, almost childlike look to his face.

Thraun's visage grew grim. He thought of his mother who fell upon the Thalmor swords. He thought of his father whom he had never known. He thought of his young brother, headstrong and stubborn, and his sister, so small and sweet, who perished at their hand. They were all at rest now. They had found peace, but how could he?

"Something resembling it," he anwered. "If I enter Sovngarde and there are many there who remember me, but I can recall none of them, I will know why."

The girl suddenly barged in, carrying a deer haunch in her hands. She took the spit from over the fire and skewered the leg with it.

"Will you help me with the rest?" she asked Thraun. They brought down the rest of the meat together; she'd done a fine job of dressing the beast. She left a pile of bones and innards on the deer's hide. They cooked all of the meat: neck, ribs, legs, all of it. Thraun had never tasted anything so delicious. She had the idea of cooking some of it overly long, turning it into jerky. That meat was put into Hadvar's pack for the journey home.

Hadvar still had some trouble getting to his feet, but managed to walk on his own to one of the bedrolls. Ralof followed soon after. Thraun just couldn't sleep. He didn't know if it was the girl or the foreign locale or the pile of bodies in the corner, or the constant pangs emanating from his arm, but sleep evaded him. It seemed to be avoiding the girl as well, and he pressed his luck for another conversation.

"You told me about the Circle," Thraun started. "What about the rest of them?"

"I think you know Komas," she retorted quickly. "The woman you knocked out is Sigurn, as formidable a shield-maiden Jorvaskr has ever seen. The orc's name is Gazok. When you see him again, don't say anything about his size. He's small for an orc. There's the twins, Vilkas and Farkas. About your age, maybe younger. The smaller of the two is Vilkas, and he's the more talented swordsman between them. Farkas is daunting to be sure: physically, he's the strongest we have, but he's more brute warrior than skillful. As loyal and fierce as a hound, but gentle, and a bit slower than most."

"The Dunmer woman, Taluru Senaro, is one of those spell-sword types. Bookish and brooding, far from our best fighter. But I've seen what she can do with her spells. She's put down many of the Companions' enemies and saved all of our asses at one time or another. She's also a gifted healer; not much for conversation, though. It's hard being the only Dunmer in a crowd of Nords."

"Orvar is an archer, like me. He's far better, though. He's a Nord, but he was raised in Valenwood with the Bosmer. He learned how to hunt in their way, and he's damn good at it. I hunted with my father for most of my life, but I never learned as much in all that time than I have with Orvar in just a few years. And I've already told you about Skjor and the old man. The most experienced and skilled warriors among us. They'd make mince meat of you or me."

"They're that good? Have you ever seen them fight?"

"If they do a job, they prefer to work alone. And they only take the most difficult ones; they're always testing themselves.

"Have they ever fought each other?" Thraun pressed her, eagerly. He enjoyed watching the best warriors in the legion spar with each other. "Who's the better of the two?"

"I've seen them spar on occasion, but they don't play to their full strengths. No sense in hurting one another to prove something to us. If it were twenty years ago or even ten, Kodlak would have beaten Skjor. But age has slowed him, and it frustrates him. He's not as good as he once was, but he's still far better than the rest of us. He doesn't take as many jobs as he used to, and lately he's been bringing one of us along every time he does."

"Perhaps he's testing you," Thraun offered.

"I think he's just getting old," she replied with a sadness to her tone. "He needs someone to pick up the slack."

A twinge of pain surged up and down his arm, and Thraun winced. The girl noticed and moved to sit beside him, taking his arm in her hand and examining it.

"You need to get that looked at by a healer," she warned.

"Well if you see one, let me know," Thraun snarked.

"You should take my horse tomorrow. You need to get to Whiterun faster than walking will allow. The priestess of Kynareth is a skilled woman, but she won't be able to do much for your arm if it takes you a week to see her."

"I couldn't take your horse," he said uneasily, pulling away from her. "Besides, I need to make sure my friends return safely."

"I think I could do a better job of that than you can at the moment," she responded seriously.

"And what am I to tell your comrades when they see that their lady's horse returned but you didn't?"

She scoffed, "I wouldn't tell them anything but the truth," she answered. "You needed it more than I did, so I let you take it."

"And whose horse is it that I should say I've returned? You know my name, but I don't know yours. That puts me at a disadvantage."

She rose and began making for the passage leading to the upper chamber. Thraun wasn't sure what he'd done to upset her.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, my lady."

She looked sharply at him and answered, "My name is Aela. Tell them I saved your life."


	12. Chapter 12: The Race and the Reward

_15th First Seed, 4E 189._

Thraun had slept between Hadvar and Ralof, on a bedroll made of deer's fur. He woke before them, and knew he could not go back to sleep. He prepared their things for the journey home; he had not yet told them he would be traveling separately. It could wait, anyways. He took their canteens and left the chamber. As he entered the upper area, Aela was nowhere in sight.

He quickly ran outside, fearing that she might have left in the night. The mare was still tied up, and stared blankly at the distressed man. Where had she gone? She swore to guide Hadvar and Ralof back. He needed her to as well: his arm had grown red and inflamed during the night. Without proper attention, it was likely to require amputation.

Outside it was windier than it had been yesterday. Clouds were rolling in from the west, and before long they'd be drenched. Over the breeze of the morning, he heard swashing from the pond. He walked towards the noise, noticeably slower than he had been yesterday. He saw her, and he felt his cheeks blaze red. Aela was in the pool, naked as the day she was born, standing at the water's edge washing the grime off her smooth pale skin. Was he still supposed to drink from that water?

"Come by the pool," she spoke suddenly. She always seemed to sense what was going on around her. How did she do that? She turned to face him, and he couldn't help but stare. She seemed to relish his gaze, and his growing discomfort. She put on her smallclothes, though still nothing covered her chest, and donned her armor. She grabbed her bow and walked slowly past Thraun, smugly grinning as she left. She was a sultry Northern lass; Arianna had been beautiful, but there was something to Aela that was primally tantalizing.

He hadn't thought of Arianna since meeting the girl. In fact, he realized he'd been lusting after Aela since he first saw her. He even found himself to be gladdened that he was not already married to Arianna, so that something could happen between them. What shamed him was, though he had fixated on Arianna for years, and he had loved her as purely as a young man could, he realized it to be more and more the truth. He was glad to be free to pursue his desires: he wanted to lay with Aela. He could not deny that feeling inside him.

But Thraun had never been a person guided by urges. These new feelings sparked uneasiness within him, and he knew acting on them was a singularly bad idea. His whole life had been built on a sense of duty: to listen to his mother, to protect his family, to serve in the legion. His mother was gone. His family was gone. The legion had tried to execute him. He was a man without a purpose, which his how he often saw the brigands he killed. Not intrinsically evil, but men and women who believed they had no other choice.

Now severed from any true duties, it was that exact fate Thraun was loath to succumb to. But it was difficult for him to suppress his desire. He had always felt a second nature within him, guided by instinct and pride and compelling towards wrath. From a young age, he needed to be the best; it emerged from time to time, mostly in the heat of battle. Every time he killed a man who was trying to kill him, the thrill overwhelmed him. The more enemies he killed, the fewer there where to ever match his skill. He reveled in it.

The words he had said to Ralof to comfort him were indeed true, however. It was during the battle that he craved more bloodshed, but it was afterwards when he wished there was never any in the first place. His actions weighed heavily upon him. When he visited home, his little brother often voiced that he wanted to be a strong warrior like his elder brother. Thraun would chastise him; he never wished his life upon his family.

But now here he was, among a sort of new family, and they had followed his lead, nearly to death. As he entered the chamber, he felt ashamed he had put the idea in their heads in the first place. He met Aela in the upper chamber. She was sharpening her dagger when he passed her. He nodded curtly and moved on, but he glimpsed the coy smile that unfurled across her lips. In the lower level, Ralof stood by the fire munching on a piece of jerky. Hadvar was filling their last bag with apples and ales.

"Brothers, a word," Thraun ordered. They approached him, concerned looks marked their faces, and Thraun's own now appeared weary. Beads of sweat had developed across his brow, and he was more pale than before. He dared not look at his own arm.

"Are you alright, Thraun?" Hadvar asked him.

"I was about to ask the same of you two," he replied. "Are you ready to travel?"

"Aye, but you look like you could use a rest," Ralof answered.

"No; what I need is a healer. The girl, Aela, offered me her horse. I need to get back to Whiterun to have my wound mended, and I need to get there fast. She is going to travel with you back to the city."

"Are you sure you can make the journey alone?" Hadvar said, exchanging a worried glance with Ralof.

"I'll be fine," he assured him. "If I make only necessary stops, I can be there in two days. I'll only stop to clean my wound or water the horse. Otherwise I'll ride through the night."

"I don't know about this, Thraun," Ralof protested. "If something happens...if you're injured, you'll be alone. There won't be anyone to help you."

"And if I stay, I'll lose my arm, or worse," Thraun argued. "A horse can't carry two riders, and I can't afford to wait. I'll be alright, friends. I'll take the orc's head with me and present it to the Jarl. He'll pay the bounty, and I'll have your shares divided in separate chests waiting at my house. You may actually want to wait another day; looked like there might be a storm coming."

"We leave when you leave," Hadvar responded adamantly. "If something should happen, perhaps we won't be too far behind."

"Don't bother arguing," Ralof added. "Your mind's made up, but so is ours. We'll follow you out."

His friend's loyalty meant a great deal to him; he would remember this gesture to the end of his days. Aela had relieved the horse of some of her excess packs and saddlebags. She had also made a sling for Thraun's arm, which he gladly accepted. It had become stiff and sore, tender to the touch. The less he used it the better he felt. Ralof helped Thraun up onto her back, and handed him the reins.

Thraun had strapped his sword to the horse's right side, so it would be easier to draw in an emergency. Things that didn't need quick accessing, like the orc's head, he hung from the left side. Bidding his friends one last farewell, and giving his thanks to Aela, he rode east.

Not long out, a squall blew in and drenched him. The rain fell so hard he could hardly see in front of him. He wondered if his friends would seek shelter in this tempest, or if they would rather press on through the muck. The winds blew in gusts so strong even the horse stumbled on occasion. She threw no fits however, so he stayed on the move. He embraced it: the cool water soothed his wound, and cooled his body temperature, which had been rising every hour from fever. When the storm passed, he found it difficult to stay awake. It was all the more difficult fighting the urge to sleep when night came. Even with the auroras of Skyrim's night sky dazzling above him, exploding in tendrils of red and green, he caught himself dozing more than once, snapping awake and trying to remain alert.

However, as is the inevitability of fatigue, he wound up falling asleep before long. Deep asleep, so deep that he couldn't react as he fell off the horse, smacking his shoulder onto the ground and reopening his wound. He had no time to whine; the horse kept on trotting without even noticing he was gone. Pain surged from his arm, and he was sure he had broken something. He managed to catch up and stall the horse, and even climbed back into the saddle with great effort. His sling had torn however, and his wounded arm hung limply at his side.

Far off, he hard a chilling howl ring through the night. A wolf, perched on a distant hill and crying out to the moons. It sang alone until another joined, and another, and another, until it was practically a choir.

"Excellent," he said. "I've got an infected right arm, I'm miles from any help, and I'm being stalked by wolves. I'm going to fucking die."

Thraun kicked at the horses sides, beckoning her into a gallop. He wanted to put a bit of distance between himself and the pack without tiring out his steed. He needed her to make it more than anything. He managed to stay awake the rest of that night, but the wolves never left his mind, and he never left their sight. It was a long night, and he rode most of the way with his left hand on his sword handle, just barely holding the reigns in his right hand.

 _16th_ _First Seed, 4E 189_

Dawn came, but his paranoia had not abated. He didn't understand why they were stalking him. Wolves were typically skittish around people, even a lone rider. This pack was either very strong, or truly desperate to want to bring him down. Or perhaps here, in the open plains of the north, where people were spread far and wide, the wild creatures had more freedom to hunt as they wished. They followed him at a distance; Thraun counted them, two, three, four! A small pack, but even if he was at full strength, he didn't believe he could take on four hungry wolves.

Then he realized: the jerky! He hadn't eaten any since yesterday before the storm. The rain had contaminated it, and it stank horribly. He hadn't noticed because the wind had shifted, blowing southwesterly, right where the wolves were coming from. He was not too far now from the city, maybe twenty miles. The sun had already passed its summit in the sky; if night fell, he wouldn't survive till dawn. He tossed the jerky bag as far as he could while keeping his balance, and picked up the pace to a steady trot. If he could keep this speed up, he'd be at the city gates before dusk.

The wolves evidently had other plans. His horse stirred suddenly, snorting and whinnying, refusing to walk forward. Thraun knew what was happening before it even happened. One wolf had begun sprinting towards him from one side and two came from behind, while another came from the other side. He was going to be pinned between two of them. He kicked the horse's sides and she took off: it was now a race between predator and prey.

Though not a very long race; the horses of Skyrim were not bred for speed. Rather, they were strong workhorses and carried too much bulk for sprinting. The wolves kept up easily, nipping at her back legs while she ran. It was a known hunting tactic: the wolf's sharp teeth would sever the animal's tendon, rendering it unable to flee. Thraun drew his sword, and swatted at them as they ran, managing to stab one of them in the back before his horse took a trip. He flew off the saddle, landing a few yards from her. He could do nothing as she was pounced on and killed in a flurry of flailing limbs and fur.

There were only three of them now, his thrust evidently true enough to deter that wolf from this feast. However, he had lost his sword: its handle jutted out from beneath the horse's shoulder! Braving the ravenous beasts, he sprang forward and pulled it from its sheath, still wedged between flesh and dirt, and readied himself as the wolves rounded upon him. This sword was now his life. The wolves snarled, their jaws dripping, and Thraun scowled back at them, turning and twisting as they circled him. He did not notice the blood running from his arm; he only knew that the agony in moving that arm was overshadowed by the anticipation of imminent death.

Thraun embraced that fury which had surfaced in times passed. It was as if some secret power slept within him, only waking when he felt his life was threatened, or even in the legion when greatly challenged. Fighting the pain now coursing through his arm, he leapt upon one of them, thrusting his sword through its neck. He rolled over as the other two lunged, one biting at his leg and the other moving towards his face. He pulled the sword from the wolf's throat and slashed at the wolf on his left, getting it across the eye. It wailed and flopped about, retreating. He caught the other by the neck, wrapping his right arm around it as it snapped and chomped towards his throat. He pushed his steel twice through its belly before it wriggled free, scratching him on the arms and chest through his tunic. It trotted a few paces before collapsing, taking its last slow, ragged breaths, and dying. There were bubbles in the blood trail it left; he must have hit a lung. Thraun rose to face the last wolf, but it was long gone, fleeting towards the hills.

The rage that had sustained him now exhausted him, but he couldn't stop. If he fell here, something would eat him in his sleep, he just knew it. He took off his shirt, torn and tattered from his fall and scuffle with the animals, and bandaged his arm as best he could. He kept his sword in hand for the rest of the trip; he had ridden far on the mare during their chase. He couldn't have been more than five miles out, but it may as well have been five hundred miles when every step drew him closer to passing out. But he held onto a bit of hope: he saw the tip of Dragonsreach in the dying light of dusk, and he had found his way back to a road. Perhaps if his legs did buckle, someone would stumble along and find him.

Chill swept over the hills as the sun disappeared behind the mountains; a torch would have been useful. Even if he could make a fire, he would need to choose between it and his sword: he couldn't hold both as his right arm was virtually useless. He had expended the last of its waning utility in fighting the wolves. He was starving, having not eaten in almost two days, and he had lost his canteen when he was thrown from his horse. Shit! He'd lost the orc's head as well! He supposed that bounty was now forfeit. He didn't have time to dwell on it before collapsing onto the stones: it seemed that exhaustion, dehydration, and infection would have him before long anyways.

When he looked up, an image of a high blurred stone met his gaze. He had stumbled upon the Western Watchtower, conveniently unmanned at the moment. It looked as though a pair of birds were circling the top, black feathered and cawing relentlessly from the sky. ' _Come! Come!'_ he heard them call. He truly was _so_ close to Whiterun, but he simply did not have the strength to go the rest of the way. He practically crawled into the tower entrance, and let the black wash over him...

 _20th First Seed,_ _4E 189_

His eyes opened, blurred and watery, he blinked a few times to clear his vision. He was resting on a low-sitting stone table, one of four surrounded by a shallow, oddly shaped pool. Sun poured in through the many windows of the ceiling, and the air in the place was cool. The floor was mostly a bluish or grey stone; a pattern of colorful stones were set in the middle of the pool, surrounding the image of a white bird. The room was dominated by several large, wooden posts, and between each two posts rested another stone bed. They were all empty, save his own.

His eyes then moved to rest upon his arm: the wound was unbandaged, and a thick, grey, clay-like salve covered it entirely. He no longer felt any pain, but his legs and torso were extremely stiff. He lifted one leg off the table, followed by the other, and he tumbled right onto the floor when he tried to sit up. A woman came rushing over to him from a room across from his bed.

"What are you doing, trying to kill yourself?" she reproached him. She sounded like his mother.

"Mother?" he called to her, confused.

She came clearer into focus, and her expression softened a bit.

"No," she answered. "But if I was your mother, I'd tan your hide. What were you thinking? Traveling Skyrim alone, at _night_ is a damn fool thing to do, child."

"Apologies," he replied truthfully. He didn't know how to react to her; she really did remind him of a stern mother. "But I had no choice. I needed my arm looked at. How long have I been out"

"Four days. And that arm required much more than looking at," she scoffed. "You're lucky I didn't have to take it. A few more hours and it would've been beyond my skill to heal. What happened to you?"

"I was completing a bounty in Redoran's Retreat," he started. "I cleared it with the help of my companions, but one of the bandits managed to slice me pretty good on the arm. Two other men came with me and were injured as well, but...," he wasn't sure how to fill out the rest. "But someone came at the final minute, with healing potions. It was only after giving them to my friends that I realized I was harmed."

"Ah, you mean Aela?" she answered. "She did come by here to check on you. She explained a bit of what happened. She was, however, curious as to the whereabouts of a certain mare?"

Thraun's eyes widened, and he clasped his hands over his eyes.

"Wolves," he answered. "Four of them attacked me on the way. They killed the horse."

"And you warded them off? Might I suggest avoiding such a confrontation in the future," she offered.

"Aye, I will if I can. They didn't get me very badly, though."

She nodded in agreement, "You could have been far worse off. There were a few scratches on your chest, but they've healed nicely." It was then that he realized he was not wearing a shirt. He was also wearing different pants; he felt in some way, violated.

"You undressed me?" he spat, worried about what she may have seen.

"You had already done half the job yourself when those men rest you on that table," she snapped back, as if worrying about preserving his modesty should have been the last thing on his mind.

"Do you remember the men who found me?" he asked her. "What they looked like?"

"I do. They were quite concerned for you, but had to get back to somewhere with haste. Two big fellows, dressed all in black. You owe them a thank you, if you ever see them again."

"I think I owe them a drink," he laughed. The birds; men like that don't just _happen_ upon situations like his. That old man just couldn't help but meddle.

"Another pair of handsome young lads came by this morning with Aela," she went on. "Attracting all sorts of crowds, aren't we?

"They're my friends," he responded. "Have they been by often?"

"Only once. I presume they've just returned from that bounty you were so eager to risk life, and apparently _limb_ , over."

"I need to go to them." he responded urgently. "I need to explain to the Jarl-"

"You're not going anywhere unless I say so," she countered forcefully.

"And you're going to stop me?" Thraun replied, astonished by her conviction. She smiled at him, and it made him uneasy.

"Boy, I could have you lay down on that stone bed and sleep for another week if I wanted, and you'd never know any different," she confessed. "You can either wait here of your own free will, or I'll put you into a coma until I decide to release you."

"You could do that?" he questioned. He never knew when a witch was bluffing.

"I'd have to wipe the dribble from your lips," she said.

"Well then, help me up," he answered her. She took hold of his good arm, and aided his legs in lifting his bulk up onto the slab.

"What's your name, my lady?" he asked her as she went to grab a bowl and pitcher. She came and sat beside him, dampening a cloth and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Danica," she replied. She left again, entering the room from which she had first emerged, and came back with a small healing potion and a long strip of bandage cloth.

"Drink this," she said, handing him the bottle. He nodded his thanks, and she grabbed his arm from his lap, wrapping the cloth around his arm and tying it off neatly. The bitter elixir was the first thing he had put into his stomach for the better part of a week, and he suddenly realized how fucking hungry he was. As if timed with the realization, his stomach promptly roared. Danica stared awkwardly at the lad, and Thraun couldn't help but chuckle.

"I'm hungry," he explained.

"Let me bring you something. You haven't eaten in several days, so when I give it to you, take it slow."

"I will," he lied. Whatever she was thinking of bringing him, he fully intended to scarf down as fast as humanly possible. She left for the inn to bring him a hot bowl of venison stew, and came back with his friends in tow. Their faces lit up with glee at the sight of their recuperated companion, and Thraun's expression mirrored theirs upon seeing them. He tried to rise and greet them, only to tip over again, catching himself on the post beside his bed.

"Easy, Thraun," Hadvar cajoled.

"How long have you been back?" he inquired. Danica brought him a crutch to help him stand on his own. He rested his arm on it and gained his footing.

"This ought to help your balance until you regain your strength," she explained.

"We got in last night," Ralof declared. "When we didn't find Aela's horse in the stable, we were worried you had not made it. You weren't in your house, and Aela confirmed that none of her shield siblings had seen you. Someone overheard us and suggested we look in here before panicking."

"Who might've told you that?" Thraun asked. He already had an idea.

"Just some old man," Hadvar answered. "I'd never seen him before."

Thraun nodded his understanding, belying any knowledge of the man's identity. Danica gave him the warm bowl, and Thraun accepted it graciously, frothing at the mouth for the broth. He declined the spoon, simply pouring the contents into his mouth with loud slurps and gulps. He finished it much too quickly, and he wished she had brought him a larger bowl.

"That's what 'slow' means to you?" Danica questioned.

"Perhaps you should try not eating for five days and see how slowly _you_ devour whatever's put in front of you," Thraun retorted, annoyed. He had taken a lot from her, but her tone was starting to fray his nerves.

"I have gone much longer than that," she replied coolly. She exited to her room once again, leaving Thraun ashamed at his childish outburst. His friends stood awkwardly beside him, and he suddenly realized that they were probably wondering where their share of the bounty was.

"We should go," Thraun asserted. "I need to explain our situation to the Jarl."

"No we don't," Ralof counted quickly. "We've already been rewarded."

Thraun stared quizzically at his friends.

"How is that possible? I lost the orc's head in the plains; we have no proof we completed the bounty?"

"We went to see the Jarl this morning," a familiar voice called from the entryway. She traipsed in confidently, bow and quiver on her back, her hand rested on the dagger at her hip.

"Aela," Thraun uttered, entranced. All she had to do was walk, and she held his entire attention. She moved and stood at the center of the pool, drenched in the light pouring in from the many windows in that house of healing.

"I vouched for them, and for you, on the honor of the Companions. I told him if he did not believe me, he need only come here and see what you endured for his people."

Thraun was astonished. He barely knew her, but in the space of a single week she had saved all their lives and practically ensured a mound of gold came his way. She was an angel. He didn't know what to say.

"Thank you my la-...Aela," he replied. "I must find a way to repay you."

She smirked that coy grin of hers, "You can start by finding me another horse." Thraun smiled, and they stared at one another for a moment in admiration, before Ralof broke the silence.

"Perhaps we could go now? Surely the three of us could convince her that you're able to get around on your own."

"That's why I came here," Aela interjected. "To get you. The Circle has requested that I bring you to them. They want to see you for themselves."

'They'll know my father won't they,' Thraun thought to himself. He felt relieved: perhaps this is what the old man meant in the way of answers. Danica appeared from her room, a plain beige tunic in her hands. She placed it in his arms, and he was once again reminded that he was not wearing a shirt.

"You're going a bit sooner than I'd like, but I see you're in good hands," she said. "Leave that bandage on over the three few days. When you remove it, rinse off whatever remains of the salve I put on your arm. It should be mostly healed by then, but if you feel any more discomfort, come back to me."

"What you've done for me means more than you'll ever know," Thraun started, "but I truly hope I never have to be in this room again."

She smiled, "So do I. You're a young man; you ought to find another line of work before you develop any more undesirable habits. But if you do go out there again looking for trouble, you might consider bringing a few potions of your own."

"I'll keep that in mind," Thraun responded, returning the smile. "I'm sorry for my outburst. Thank you again for your aid, and for the soup."

She went back to her room, and Thraun placed the crutch by the door as he left. He held tightly to Hadvar's arm as he walked, still getting his balance. Aela walked ahead of them, guiding them to the building she called Jorvaskr; her home. In the courtyard, the great tree whose limbs spread long and wide across the square, had begun to flower. Two ravens were perched in its boughs, and Thraun subtly nodded his thanks to them as they passed under its budding branches, slowly making their way up the steps to the famed mead hall.

* * *

 ***A/N* Happy Valentine's day to everyone. This was my longest chapter to date at 4,826 words (not including this note) and I think it's one of my favorite. As always, feedback is encouraged and appreciated. I hope everyone enjoyed and that you have a fun and safe holiday!**


	13. Chapter 13: Introductions

Things were much calmer than the last time he'd entered their hall. No one was fighting, and the fire at the center of the hall burned low. In fact, there was hardly anyone inside at all. Just a lone man speaking with two others, who appeared to be about Thraun's age. Though they had similar looks, one was much larger than the other. They must have been the brothers Aela had mentioned. She wasn't lying about the big one: Farkas, if he recalled correctly. Thraun wagered he was bigger than Hadvar, and he'd even give that hulk Arnbjorn a run for his money.

"Wait here," Aela whispered in Thraun's ear. He obliged; he wasn't moving very fast to begin with, but he perked up upon entering the hall. He didn't want them to think him weak. Ralof and Hadvar stood behind Thraun at either side. He glanced up and saw the balding man approaching. He wore an armor the likes of which Thraun had never seen or forged. It had the look of steel, but was more silvery in color, and was engraved with intricate patterns and a wolf's head on the chest plate. He was met with an icy gaze from a single seeing eye: the other had atrophied and turned white, unseeing, and was marked with a long scar above and below the socket. A dead man's eye. Aela walked ahead of him, and turned to face both men.

"Skjor, this is Thraun," she said very formally, much more so than she had yet spoken with Thraun.

"Ah, so this is the whelp who thrashed our shield-siblings bare handed." He scowled, thoroughly unimpressed by the Nord who stood before him. He studied him for a moment, then abruptly struck him hard across the jaw. Thraun fell to the floor, and his friends attempted to intervene. The elder man tossed Ralof and Hadvar aside like paperweights, and once on the ground, they were easily subdued by the twins.

"What are you doing!?" Aela shouted, moving to stand between him and Thraun.

"This cub attacks our home, he throttles three of our shield siblings, he takes one little cut and nearly dies, and you want _him_ as a part of our ranks? You must have lost your damned senses."

"Oh?" she responded defensively, "And was that the case when one "little cut" across your eye had you on your back for a week?"

"Mind your tone, Aela," he deadpanned. "I know my place, and you know yours. We have no room in our beds for weak men."

"My place is with the Companions," she argued, "and our job is to make sure Skyrim becomes a safer place. In order to do that, our ranks need to be bolstered by strong warriors. I've seen what these three can do. They're not weak."

Thraun rose and made for the man, having utterly forgotten Danica's advice, but Aela placed a hand on him, and her eyes pleaded with him to make his next move with sense. For some reason, Thraun could not refuse her.

"As you said yourself," Thraun started, still fuming from the man's assault, "I bested _three_ of your shield-siblings. Stennar can attest to that."

"Is that supposed to make me accept you?" Skjor replied.

"You summoned me?" Thraun questioned. "In the very least, I made an impression."

"What the hell are you talking about, boy? No one summoned you."

"Well... _you_ didn't," Aela interjected, confusing both Thraun and Skjor.

"No, I did."

Stennar came in from the outer courtyard, walking over to the group to inform them of their ignorance.

"You called this boy here without mine or the Harbinger's consent?" Skjor asked, giving him the same frustrated glare he'd been giving to Thraun since he first met him. Did he ever do anything but scowl?

"No, no, the Harbinger is fully aware that he is coming. It was his idea in the first place, which I relayed to Aela."

"I am one of the Circle. Why wasn't I told about this?"

Stennar chuckled, "The harbinger and I knew you would object. Rather than listening to any of your grumbling, we made a choice."

"Aye, I wouldn't have him within the castle walls if I could help it," Skjor spat. "Why would you allow him in our home? He dishonors us."

"Fortunately for us, the Harbinger has final say on that matter," Stennar responded confidently. His smile was as potent as Skjor's scowl.

"If I could speak," Thraun interjected. He had everyone's attention.

"I only came here for two reasons. I had hoped to gain entry into your ranks, but I think my chances of that happening now may be slim. In the very least, I was hoping to speak with the Circle...about my father."

For the first time, Skjor cracked an uneasy grin, "You damn fool boy," he said with an arrogant laugh, "we don't even know anything about _you_ besides your name. How would you expect us to know anything about your father?"

Thraun suddenly felt sick; how could they _not_ know him? Or especially his mother!

"You knew him, I know you did," he choked. "He was raised here. He lived in these halls. He was your friend!" he cried loudly.

"Name him," Stennar responded calmly before Skjor could discourage Thraun anymore.

"My father was Wuulfarth," he said nervously, "You must have known him. And my mother, Valara."

Skjor's expression softened partially for a moment, pausing at the revelation. Thraun could see it in his eyes that he remembered.

"Will you tell me about him? Please," he pleaded with the warrior. He moved towards the boy, and Thraun readied himself for a thrashing like he'd never received.

"Skjor!"

A booming voice rang from behind him, and he turned to see an aging Nord. His beard grew down to his shoulders and its grey was flecked with white. He bore no weapons, but his fists were hard and his hands were wrapped. He was remarkably well built though obviously aging, and there was something…primal about his gaze.

"Who is this stranger?" he questioned. "And why are the two of you holding these men," he addressed the twins.

"This," Skjor paused, "is Wuulfarth's boy. Wuulfarth and Val's son. Or so he says."

Thraun started to speak, but the old man interjected.

"Your name, friend?"

"Thraun. And yours?"

"I am Kodlak," he said. "I'm an advisor to this lot. I see you've met Skjor. Yes, you are the one I summoned, and had I known I would be meeting _the_ son of Wuulfarth today, I might've greeted you sooner. Forgive my shield-brother's…caution. He's rightfully wary of most newcomers."

Thraun's head cocked, "Ah, so he hits every whelp that walks through your doors?"

"Only the ones I'm not sure about," Skjor responded on his behalf. "When a stranger comes through those doors, I worry I might have to fight them. And when I fight, other men lose."

"There will be no need for that," Kodlak commanded. He turned to address the twins again, "You two, let them up. Thraun and his friends are our guests, and they will be treated as such for the time being."

"Master," Skjor pleaded, for the first time using a tone that wasn't wholly tainted with irritation, "You cannot truly be considering accepting him?"

"I am noone's master, Skjor," he admonished the man, "But I understand that Arnbjorn's bed is still empty. Perhaps we've found the man to fill it."

Skjor's eyes widened, and even Stennar seemed ill at ease by mentioning Arnbjorn.

"Arnbjorn was a member of the Circle," Stennar seemed to be reminding Kodlak. "You surely do not mean to be granting him such an honor?"

"Perhaps he will be on the Circle someday," Kodlak mused. "Perhaps not."

"If he can prove his mettle, maybe," Stennar added.

Kodlak nodded, "Of course. How are you in battle, boy?" he questioned.

"I'm sure I still have much to learn," he responded humbly. Kodlak's gaze was skeptical still.

"Aela tells us you can hold your own with a blade. We will see. This is Vilkas," he said, gesturing to the smaller of the two men standing behind Skjor. "He will test your strength, and see if you might be worthy of joining us. Vilkas!"

The man stepped forward, nodding before his elder. Kodlak grabbed his shoulder, "Take him outside and give him a look over."

He smiled and simply responded, "Aye."

"Harbinger," Hadvar spoke before Vilkas left. "Thraun is still recovering from a knife wound he suffered while completing a bounty," he said, sounding concerned. "Perhaps this test could wait for some other time?"

"Nonsense," Thraun interrupted. "I've been asleep for four days. That's all the recovery I need."

"Don't be a moron," Ralof chided him. "One bad hit and you'll be back in Danica's house not even one day after leaving it."

"Duly noted," Thraun quickly responded. He needed to make a strong impression, and it wasn't going thus far as he had planned.

"Thraun," Aela now wanted to say her piece, grabbing his arm as he walked away from his friends. "If you're going to do this, fine. Just...know your limits. You'll live longer that way."

Thraun leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Is he going to _kill_ me?" he asked, with a tone feigning concern. She frowned at him and he smirked at his own joke. His friends reluctantly followed him outside, where Vilkas handed Thraun a leather cuirass to wear for protection, and a sparring blade. Thraun took it and twirled it in his hand, getting a feel of the weight and the balance. It was a tad heavier than his own sword...which he then realized he had no idea where that was. Vilkas took one of the dulled swords from the rack, and grabbed a wooden shield for his left arm. They stepped fully out into the courtyard and faced each other.

"The old man said to have a look at you," he said. "So let's see what you can do."

The two Nords circled each other for a moment, sizing up the competition. Thraun was the larger of the two, but Vilkas wore the more protective armor. Thraun attacked with a blitzkrieg of thrusts and slashes, each dodged or parried by Vilkas, his sword and shield combination proving a unique challenge for Thraun. In the first bout, the two were merely testing the other's defenses and taking measure of each others' skill. Thraun attacked quickly again, hoping his speed would be able to break his Vilkas' defense. A low thrust was parried away by Vilkas' sword, a downward blow blocked by his shield. He struck back at Thraun's left, and Thraun met his kinsman's steel, only to be bashed in the right shoulder by his shield and pushed back.

Recovering, Thraun took a more defensive stance, allowing his opponent to make the first move. He raised his sword overhead, striking out with his sword from behind his shield, stabbing downward at Thraun rapidly and successively, hoping he would make a misstep. He did not. On the last Thraun swatted the blade away and swiped at Vilkas' head, which he knew would be blocked by his shield. He struck at Vilkas' leg, which he parried with his sword. Vilkas stabbed At Thraun's sword-hand with his shield, hoping to disarm him. Not knowing if he did or didn't, he twirled and slashed down upon Thraun, who had not loosened his grip on the sparring sword and met him mid swing. He promptly kicked him hard in his side, sending him stumbling to the ground, landing at the feet of the one-eyed warrior, who scowled down at his young counterpart.

He rose with new fortitude; now he was on the defensive. Thraun suddenly switched sword hands, striking with his left instead of his right. He swiped at Vilkas' leg again, as he had several times already, and the result was the same. He struck down on Vilkas head as he had several times already, and the result was the same. He had goaded Vilkas into striking and bashing, as he had before, which was exactly what Thraun had hoped for. He extended his injured forearm and absorbed the blow with a tinge of pain, bringing the shield in close to his chest. He grabbed it suddenly, and practically tossed Vilkas into the back wall of the courtyard. As he still had hold of the shield with his right hand, he brought his sword around and smashed Vilkas's shield arm with it. Vilkas grimaced at Thraun's strike, and Farkas moved to defend his elder brother, but a protesting hand from the Harbinger stopped his advance. Vilkas struck back at Thraun, hitting him hard on the back with his own sword. Enraged, Thraun ripped the shield from his kinsman and turned, once again swinging at Vilkas's head.

Vilkas brushed the blow away with ease, and sliced horizontally at Thraun, who ducked beneath his blade. He lashed out with a flurry of strikes and slashes, and Thraun had to be doubly careful to parry them all: in his speed, in his footing, in his strength to match the strike but not exceed it. He had never been challenged like this before. He had met men he could beat easily in a duel, he had met men who could easily beat him, but an _equal_ -a true equal-was something he had not yet faced. In every instance that Thraun seemed to be winning, his friends cheered for him, their enthusiasm met with glares from Skjor and the other Companions, save Kodlak and Aela who were focused on the events unfolding before them. The two men met their gaze and sneered right back at them.

Vilkas whacked down upon Thraun, clearly tired from the many blows he had tried to lay upon his kinsman. Thraun however was engrossed in the battle. His heart raced and his lungs filled with fire! He guided the sword down, and punched Vilkas in the jaw with his left. He stumbled away, his hand clenching the spot where Thraun's fist landed, and he was sure he had clasped the victory. He fought as if he hadn't been recovering from injury for the past week. He moved to stab at Vilkas, who turned suddenly, much quicker than Thraun could have anticipated. He parried the sword away and knocked it down with such force that Thraun lost hold of it, and was forced to yield as Vilkas brought his blade up to his throat. He raised his hands a bit as a sign of submission, and Vilkas lowered his weapon.

There was a pause in the air, each staring down the other, wondering what he might do. A bang snapped the tension as Kodlak clapped vigorously and laughed at what had just happened. The rest of the Companions and Thraun's friends joined in the ovation, as Kodlak descended the stairs into the courtyard smiling, and clasped a hand on both of the young mens' shoulders.

"You fought well, the both of you," he said with a grin. "I haven't seen this much fire in a training session in months. I think some new blood is exactly what we need around here."

Thraun was elated!

"You honor me," he said with a curt nod, barely keeping a beaming smile hidden beneath a subtle grin. Vilkas took Thraun's sword from his hand and placed it back on the rack along with his own.

"I would speak with you lad," Kodlak held to Thraun a bit tighter as he tried to go away. He then addressed his shield-siblings, "Go about your business, friends. We will return in after a while."

"I'll meet you later, at the inn," Thraun said to his own companions, who had been waiting for him to finish. They looked dejected, but obeyed and walked around the front to leave. Aela lingered a moment after them, but she respected her Harbinger's wishes and went inside.

"She likes you," Kodlak said abruptly. "Do you like her?"

He caught Thraun off guard. He knew she was beautiful, but that is all he knew about her, really. She was strong, and a skilled hunter. He did not know the perils his friends may have faced on their own journey, but they all had returned safely, so she had to be a capable woman. Thraun's eyes must've alluded to the storm of thought raging in his mind, and Kodlak laughed.

"It's alright lad, that's not why I wanted to talk," he assured him. "You have talent, son. I've seen Vilkas contested a few times, but never quite like that. He and Farkas have been with us since they were barely out of there swaddling clothes. Of the two, Vilkas is the more gifted warrior; he trains for hours every day. You must have undertaken a similar amount of training if you matched him for that long."

"My mother taught me," he admitted with a smile. "I spent time in the Legion as well," he tacked on rapidly. He would not speak of that time in his life if he could help it.

"I recognized your form," Kodlak reminisced. "Quick slashes and jabs followed by a retreat and regroup. Your technique is not as refined as hers, but it's a start. You move well, but your footwork could use some improvement. Why don't you use a shield?"

"I prefer to use my free hand to keep balance. I can react quicker without a bulky weight on it."

"So you prefer speed over strength?" he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard. "I take it you wear light armor?"

"I donned an imperial cuirass for two years. I trained a bit in heavy armor, but I didn't like how it hindered my movements so I set it aside. I was always quick enough to not regret it. Perhaps I need to revisit that prospect."

Thraun was anxious the Harbinger might address his time in the legion, but he didn't even seem to acknowledge that part of Thraun's remark.

"I think Eorlund might find it an interesting armorer's challenge."

Thraun perked up, "Perhaps he could teach me?"

"You have experience working a forge?" Kodlak inquired.

"I apprenticed under the blacksmith in Riverwood for the past six months. I never forged anything beyond steel, but I'm decent.

"You learned to steel-smith in six months?" he was astonished at that. It usually takes years before an apprentice can competently work with steel.

"I took to it," Thraun answered.

"I'll speak to Eorlund. He's never had an apprentice; you might be good for each other.

"That's fine, but I didn't really came here to learn to smith." Thraun was worried he might fall back into the same cycle that drove him from Riverwood.

"What was your intent in coming here, then?" he asked earnestly.

"You summoned me," Thraun answered. "I answered that summons because I want to learn about my parents. There are...blank spots in their past that I know nothing about, and I believe you might. But I also came here to train. The Companions are some of the best warriors in Skyrim. I want to be accounted in that number."

"I don't think so," Kodlak answered quickly, unconvinced. His face had grown stern, and he leaned forward in his chair. "I won't believe that Valara raised one of her children to crave such arrogance. I believe you when you say you want to learn about your parents. You should: I could tell you many interesting stories. But what I think you really want, is vengeance. You hide your anger well. But I was angry for a long, lad, and I knew how to hide it. So I'll ask you again: why did you come here?"

Perhaps he could not avoid the truth, as he had been able to when he met Ralof and Hadvar. Kodlak's many long years of acquired wisdom had rendered him far too astute to be deceived. Thraun realized this, and so with little resistance told him the truth.

"A few years ago, my home was attacked by the Thalmor. They killed my mother; butchered her, and left her corpse to rot in the sun. I had a brother and sister. They burned the house with them still inside. But they didn't kill me. No, they took me to one of their outposts in the Jeralls. And they tortured me, for months on end until they threw me out into the snow to die."

"That was six months ago. I don't know how I survived but I know now that I have a new purpose. Allowing this wrong to go forgotten would be a disgrace to my family. Their murderers have won twice over if they are never punished. I was defenseless. I couldn't do anything to defend my family. I never want to be defenseless again. Aye, I don't just want to learn to fight, and I don't just want vengeance. I want both. Have I come to the right place?"

Kodlak had sat back in his chair once more, and Thraun saw the water pooling in his eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that, lad," his voice had grown soft. "Truly, I am. Your mother and father both were...relentless. There were no fiercer warriors or more loyal friends among our ranks than the two of them. I can see why you would desire revenge; I too loved them. It would be pleasing to see those who have wronged you brought to justice, for my part. Vengeance is _not_ justice, however I can see that distinction will do little to sway you. Your mind is made up, and it will be either your death or theirs, alone, that finally puts this matter to rest. The least I can do is ensure you are absolutely ready to confront your enemy, and that the skills you learn here provide the best chance for victory."

"So...you're saying-"

"Yes yes, of course you may join us. But to be clear, you have not yet earned the moniker of shield brother," he specified. "That come later. However you may eat, sleep, and dwell within our halls, so long as you honor our traditions and obey our rules."

"Of course...Harbinger," Thraun answered proudly.

Kodlak showed a small smile, and grabbed an unopened bottle of mead from the adjacent table.

"Now," he took a swig of his drink and cleared his throat. "Let's talk about your daddy."


	14. Chapter 14: Answers and Trouble

_20th First Seed, 4E 189_

"What do you want to know," the old man asked, handing him a bottle of mead from the table beside him. Thraun had to think about it. He wanted to know _everything_ ; he'd never thought about anything specific. He wanted to know why it was that everywhere he went in this city, he was being overshadowed by a man he'd never met.

"Why don't you tell me about his time with the Companions," he answered plainly. Why not? It's where he met his mother, he knew that much.

"Perhaps I should start by warning you: much of your father's life was rather dull and normal."

Thraun flashed a smile, "How much?"

"For most of his first twenty years, he wasn't up to anything important, as you might expect. He grew up here, he was tutored by his father, he joined and trained with the Companions from a young age. His trial came after his seventeenth year, and he was thereafter called shield-brother."

Thraun remembered what the old hermit said. That he had raised his father here, then perished and took on a new form.

"What happened to his father-my grandfather," Thraun feigned. He knew Odin wasn't actually his grandfather, but Kodlak didn't, and he was curious.

"I never knew him very well. He didn't exactly approve of your father joining us. At least, that's what Wuulfarth always said. He was a fond and gifted practitioner of sorcery and potion making, and preferred that his son be tutored on history and magic, rather than spending day in and day out swinging a sword." That reminded Thraun of his own mother. Granted, she taught him everything he knew, but she only wanted him to be able to defend himself and his siblings. She never wanted him to live by the sword. He imagine she wished the same for her husband. She married one stubborn Nord and gave birth to another.

"My father learned magic?" Thraun asked. He had never placed much stock in it, much preferring sharp steel in his hand to a spell. "Was he any good?"

"Oh yes," Kodlak assured him. "He became a very talented healer, and in fact taught Danica many of the skills she uses as a priestess. His father taught him much of the lore of alchemy, and he often poured over old books learning about restoration magic. He could brew fantastic, powerful elixirs of healing, and his spells often soothed his weary shield-siblings. Reyon-that was your grandfather's name if you didn't know-as I said, did not enjoy seeing his son deliberately put himself in harms way. Wuulfarth once confided in me that he was, 'one more lecture away from moving out of that house.' He never did, looking back."

"But he meant a great deal to your father," Kodlak continued. "His passing hurt him deeply, and I suspect that's why he left."

"He left the companions?" Thraun asked. He knew that though, as Odin had already told him about his father's status as Grandmaster of the Blades.

"He did," Kodlak remembered. "After his father's death, he gathered us all in Jorrvaskr, and told us he was leaving. He would not say specifically to what end, just that he was honoring his father's dying wish. Went to Hammerfell if I recall correctly."

"Hammerfell," Thraun gave him a quizzical look. Of all the places in Tamriel..."What was in Hammerfell?"

"He picked up some new fighting techniques was all he ever told us. He returned only briefly, and he admitted he did not truly know where he had trained. Only that it was on an island in the Abecean. After that went south, joined the Blades."

He answered with some miff, and Thraun wondered if he held it against his father. He dared not ask, though.

"How long ago was that?" he probed. Kodlak's brow furrowed in thought.

"That was, oh, thirty years ago? It wasn't long before leaving that he married your mother, but they didn't see each other much. She had a life in Skyrim, and he had ties with the Blades, before they were destroyed."

He grimaced; Thraun wondered how his father could have escaped the purge that doomed his brothers in arms.

"While that distance saddened both of them," Kodlak went on, "their devotion to each other never wavered. Things were heavily strained with the onset of the Great War, but even still, your father found time away from his duties to be with your mother, before his own passing."

"My mother only told me he died fighting for the Empire," knowing what Thraun knew, of how things turned out, he pitied his father for that. "I don't believe she ever told me the _whole_ truth of his death."

Kodlak's face formed into a bit of a snarl, only for a moment, and he wondered if he had brought forth a bad memory.

"Well, she didn't _lie_ to you," Kodlak said coolly. "He fell upon an elven sword, or perhaps many, surrounded by enemies at the Red Ring. And while through the years hence I have tried to maintain an open mind, it has been difficult not to rehearse a deep suspicion of all elves. It pains me that he survived all of that dreadful war, a veteran of a dozen battles, only to perish at its closing."

That broke Thraun's heart. Not just for him, but for his mother: they were so close to having a different life. A happier life. He remembered the day she learned of his father's death: he was only four years old. She did not weep for him; for years after she would only rarely speak of him, and if she did she was quick to change the topic. It frustrated Thraun that he grew up knowing so little, but he didn't press her. Every time he would ask, he saw a glimpse of the pain she felt at his passing, and he would drop the subject.

"What happened to his body?" Thraun asked, wiping at his eyes. "Was he buried there or...?"

"His body was returned to Skyrim by Ulfric Stormcloak, only a young lad then."

"Stormcloak?" Thraun questioned.

"You may not know him," Kodlak answered, "but he's a very powerful man in Skyrim. He's the Jarl of Windhelm, an ancient and proud city, the former capital of the province."

"How did he know my father?" Thraun inquired.

"I asked the same of him at the funeral. Said he was his battalion commander; that he followed him into many battles, and that your father had saved his skin more than once. Looking back now, I remember how desolate he was that he could not return the favor. Alas, Wuulfarth was at peace; his body had been cleansed, preserved from rot and natural decay by means I do not understand. He was burned on a pyre over the Skyforge, as all honorable Companions are. Many attended that ceremony, the newly anointed Jarl of Windhelm among them, and a blonde-headed lass I never saw again. I only remember her because she knelt before his body, and I heard the blessing she entreated of Talos."

'Stormcloak,' Thraun thought. A memorable name.

So it was, many aspects of his father's life were lain bare: he wasn't so much a mystery after all. Indeed there were still many things he did not know, about his time in the legion or with the blades, but perhaps that was something he could never know. Kodlak's knowledge had expired, and there was no way he could know anymore than what Thraun's father, or those who knew his father, had shared with him. What still gnawed at him was his mother. He knew he shouldn't resent her for anything, but he was still vexed that she had been so withholding of the truth. What harm could even his father's memory do to her that was so great she shut it out for seventeen years?

"What did my mother do while he was away?" Thraun asked. Perhaps she had taken a paramour of some sort, and was too ashamed to admit it?

Kodlak couldn't help but smile, "Ah, your mother was a fine woman. I brought her on not long after your father formally joined our ranks. They became fast friends, and everyone could see what was becoming of them. They trained together, and Wuulfarth was her witness when she was formally inducted into our ranks. But you have unintentionally indulged an old man's love of reminiscing; I digress. In his time away, your mother worked: she trained, she took bounties, she earned gold. Before long she had a little one to look after."

He smiled into his bottle, suddenly he...giggled. Not something Thraun had expected from the Harbinger of the companions. He glanced at Thraun, taking in the confusion marring his face, and laughed harder!

"I was just thinking of you as a child," he explained. "You wouldn't remember it, but you once spent a lot of time here. You used to play in the courtyard with the twins. It seems you've all grown up and found each other again."

"Did we fight back then too?" Thraun jested.

"Oh, all the time!" Kodlak returned with another kind laugh. "You used to chase each other around the hall laughing, and the three of you caused more trouble than you were worth. When you visited your mother would scold you for making a ruckus, but your father always came to your defense."

Thraun had no memory of these times, nor did he recall his father coming home. He could not remember the sound of his voice, the look of his face, size of his smile. He could only recollect how he made him feel: warm, and safe. Happy. Tucking him in and reading to him. Giving him a kiss goodnight, or tousling his hair in the morning. Very fatherly things after all.

"Why did they keep the house, if they could have lived in Jorrvaskr?" Thraun questioned.

"You own that house now, do you not? When you see the beds _we_ sleep in, you might want to stay there. In truth, I couldn't tell you with any certainty, but I suspect your mother kept you there for her family's sake. Jorrvaskr is not a place for children, and if you haven't yet noticed, none of us wear a wedding band. Men whose earnings come from battle tend not to live very long; we have no time for families or the luxury of love. Your parents could not abandon one life for the other, and here we are. I think they were starting to distance themselves from the fighting life. Your mother, anyways. It wouldn't be fair to leave her children orphaned because of a lifestyle choice."

"No it wouldn't," Thraun agreed.

"The only thing that made her stay as long as she did was the gold. She brought in quite a bit for herself when she was with us. Your mother wasn't a drinker, and she didn't take a shine to frivolity. By the time she left Skyrim she had two young children, and another on the way. She saved every coin she ever earned, at least whatever she didn't spend to feed or clothe her cubs. Whatever she did, _always_ , she did for family. There was no one more unselfish person on this earth."

The chest! It wasn't his father's gold after all, but his mothers! He still didn't understand why she would leave it behind. Knowing what became of their home, Thraun wasn't complaining. Gods, what a fool he had been, allowing a suspicion of her choices to spark such anger in him. She had her reasons; how could he have doubted her? She loved her family more than anything! To have lost his father so suddenly, to have to raise he and his siblings alone...he couldn't imagine the burden.

Once, she retold his father's last words to her. "We will be together again." He detected the longing in her voice every time she said it, an unfulfilled promise of a man who never came home. But Thraun, only now, realized that his promise had come true. They were together at last, just in another place. Thraun felt ashamed, as he had on several occasions since coming to Skyrim. Whatever grudge he'd been holding against his mother for her secrets, he abandoned it in an instant. For the first time in many long months, he prayed silently to the nine, thanking them for blessing him with a mother so devoted.

Kodlak looked over the walls; the light was dying, the sky turning red before dusk. He finished his bottle and rest it down upon the table.

"I think it is time for me to have supper," he said surprisingly. He rose and made for the door, leaving Thraun confused at his abrupt exit.

"Wait! When will my training begin?" he inquired after him. The old Nord turned around to face him.

"What do you want to learn?" he asked, puzzling Thraun. He thought he'd been rather clear on that.

"I want to learn to fight," he answered sternly.

Kodlak frowned, "To learn to _kill_ you mean."

"That's usually how the fight ends," Thraun replied.

Kodlak stepped in closer, a nose length's from his face.

"As you wish lad," he stated. "First lesson." He suddenly pushed Thraun back, and he stumbled over a chair, falling flat on his ass. He stared blankly up at the old man.

"Always mind your surroundings," the elder Nord spoke cockily. "I believe you have some arrangements to make, goodbyes to say and so forth. I'll inform the Circle about my decision. Come by tomorrow and your training can begin in earnest."

He entered the hall, closing the door behind him. Thraun guessed he was not yet welcome to dine with the rest of the Companions.

* * *

The inn was buzzing with familiar and unfamiliar faces. The fire burned red hot; everyone was drinking, singing, or eating. A Redguard woman was running frantically around the floor, carrying pints in hand, weaving between patrons and slapping away groping hands. He saw his friends sitting at a table, calmly drinking a pint together, empty plates at their side.

"Lads," Thraun greeted them as he pulled up a chair. They quietly raised their drinks to him in acknowledgement. They each sat beside the wall, resting their heads against it. His normally talkative friends had lost their tongues, it seemed.

"What is it?" he asked them.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Hadvar told him. Thraun had not forgotten. "I'm not sure if I should celebrate. I don't know what I'll find when I get there, and you've been advising me against even going since we got to Whiterun."

"And yet you're still going through with it," Ralof scorned him. "How can you support the empire after what Thraun's told us?" Thraun agreed with him. Was he too stubborn to believe that the empire was anything short of the _glorious_ reputation it had acquired over the decades?

"I cannot believe it," Hadvar responded firmly. "Thousands upon thousands of good people died in the Great War, our parents among them," he gestured to Thraun. "I will not believe that they fought and died for nothing."

"I do not want to believe it either," Thraun cajoled them. "You have no idea how much I wish I had never lain eyes on that box. But now I know the truth; I wish you would believe _me_ at least. I only pray you are luckier than I was."

"Any advice?" he asked nervously.

"If you're dead set on going, I'll warn you to keep your nose out of trouble. Respect the chain of command, but stay away from the officers as often as you can. Not the captains or the Quaestors: they're a part of your everyday life. The Tribunes, the Legates, and gods forbid you ever cross paths with a General, but those are the ones you want to avoid. Following basic orders will prevent you from accumulating any infractions, which prevents unwanted attention from higher up being brought your way."

"Yes, yes," Ralof snarked, "And why don't you go ahead and kiss their bare ass while you're at it? Then maybe you can join their inner circle..."

"That's enough," Thraun started.

"No, let him get it out," Hadvar interrupted, his tone growing hostile. "I want to hear what else he's got to say. Maybe for once it'll be something worthwhile!"

They went back and forth for some time, a pointless debate considering Hadvar's mind was made up. As things got more heated, their argument grew louder, and Thraun worried he might have to physically separate the two of them.

"GO! Go be with the damned Legion!" Ralof shouted, the much of the inn growing quiet around their argument. "You'll just be one of their grunts: another mindless dog to do their bidding and walk all over. They'll be lucky to have you. Maybe someday you'll get in on the secret, and profit from the misery of the people!"

"Enough!" Thraun bellowed over them. "If this is to go on any longer, it will not be in here." He withdrew from the table, and motioned for his friends to do the same. They gathered outside in the empty square, so as to only harass the guards on patrol.

Ralof hadn't missed a beat, "The Legion is _corrupt!"_ he shouted. "How can you not see that! Do you take Thraun for a liar!"

"I believe there is more to what he saw than he thinks," Hadvar responded. "I am not ready to forgo all that the Empire has done for Skyrim without at least discovering the truth for myself."

"And _great_ things they've done indeed," Ralof mocked. Thraun knew where the both of them stood in regards to the aftermath of the Great War, and it was all now angrily coming out. "They abandoned Hammerfell to the elves, leaving Skyrim as the backbone of their might. And how was Skyrim rewarded for its loyalty? They took our gods from us! By having Talos ripped from our temples, the Empire has shown how weak it has become."

"You want to secede, is that it?" Hadvar questioned. "Without the Empire, the Dominion will run our home through like a knife through butter. Skyrim cannot survive without the Empire, and the Empire cannot survive without us! If you want to keep the Thalmor out of power, this is the way. Skyrim just can't do it alone."

"We have to suffer the choices made by those who came before us," Thraun reminded them. "What's done is _done._ Don't allow a petty disagreement to destroy your friendship."

"That _petty disagreement_ may just see him killed," Ralof spat. "And if he's too much of a fool to see it, then why waste my time trying to help him?"

Thraun sighed, "If you choose to be at odds tonight, then who will be sleeping at my house?" he asked. This did toss a wrench into the sleeping arrangements.

"I will stay at the inn," Ralof answered coldly. "And I do not hope to see you there with _him_." he said to Thraun, a poorly veiled threat.

"So you will part as enemies?" Thraun asked warily.

"If he's willing to turn his back on us, on Skyrim, on _Talos_ , then I will have no part in how his life plays out," Ralof said maliciously.

Hadvar glowered at him, "And if he is willing to forget all the centuries that the Empire has protected Skyrim, to neglect the sacrifice born by our fathers, then I am willing to forget _him_."

Ralof spat at his feet and departed for the inn. Hadvar lingered there in the courtyard for a moment, before glancing at Thraun and walking towards his home. He didn't try to hide the disappointment on his face. The two of them said very little that night, and Thraun was nervous about what might come the next morning.

 _21st First Seed, 4E 189_

Hadvar had woken up first; Thraun heard him bustling downstairs, placing things into packages and speeding around in a frenzy. His armor and sword were leaned against a pile of sacks and other bags, ready to be loaded out.

"So what's your plan?" Thraun asked him groggily. Hadvar hadn't yet noticed him, and was jumped at Thraun's words.

"If I don't die of fright," he started, "I was going to take my earnings from the bounty and purchase a ride to Riverwood. Say goodbye to my aunt and uncle and my little cousin before I go south."

"Have you eaten?" Thraun asked. "We could stop at the inn before-"

"And make amends with Ralof?" Hadvar interjected. He was much more astute than Thraun ever gave him credit for. "I don't think that's likely to happen, even if I wanted to." Thraun sighed. They had been friends much longer than he had known them. Brothers, really.

"You've known each other your whole lives," Thraun pleaded. "Why not make peace with him before you go? Or at least try to."

"I'm not changing my mind about the legion, and I'm definitely not going to change his. I'd have better luck arguing with a rock."

"So that's it then? You're just going to cast your friend aside?"

"Honestly Thraun, I think it's best I leave him behind," he said sadly. "This has been a long time coming. And it's not like he didn't do the same to me last night. I've made my choice. If he can't accept it, so be it."

"Fair enough," Thraun answered. "So you intend to hire the carriage to Riverwood?"

"Aye," Hadvar answered. "I wonder if he's giving rides to Helgen? I'm sure my uncle would be wiling to let me borrow Milly for the trip."

"And how is she to get back?" Thraun inquired. Hadvar hadn't considered that.

"Then perhaps I could ask Alvor for a ride in the carriage? I suppose if it comes down to it I could just walk. I wonder if there's any carriages going to Cyrodiil?"

"Save your money," Thraun said, a grin growing on his face. "I have a better idea."

His words garnered a quizzical look from his kinsman, and Thraun smiled as he led him outside. They grabbed his belongings, his armor, sword, gold, clothes and whatever else, and walked to the stables. Thraun greeted the stable-master, Skulvar, who immediately led them to the pen of a lovely black mare. She neighed happily as she chewed on the hay he'd set inside for her.

"What's this?" Hadvar asked him.

"It's your horse," Thraun answered. "I bought her before we left for Redoran's Retreat."

"You bought me...a horse?" he asked funnily. Thraun nodded, and Hadvar was speechless for a while, a mixture of gratitude and utter disbelief etched into his face. "I've never had a horse of my own," he said finally.

"And now you do," Thraun said still smiling. "Consider it a parting gift. No need to worry about carriages or anything else."

"I think Aela would've appreciated it more," Hadvar jested. "Ah, she is beautiful. How old is she?"

Thraun wasn't sure, "Eighteen I think. She hasn't yet told me."

Hadvar huffed, "I meant the horse, Thraun." His eyes widened.

"Hasn't yet seen her seventh winter," the stable-master answered from the horse's pen. "She comes from a good line, and ought to last you many years if you treat her properly."

"Indeed I will," Hadvar replied. "Thraun...I don't know what to say. You shouldn't have, really; this must've cost you a fortune!"

"Nah," Thraun shrugged it off. "Just a couple of diamonds from the chest. Besides, you need a horse more than I need treasure."

Thanking him again with a smile, Hadvar introduced himself to the mare, and she took to him readily enough. He and Thraun fitted her with a saddle, and loaded the rest of his bags onto her back. Hadvar guided it out of the stable, and walked her around while holding the reigns, getting her used to his commands.

"I think you're ready for an adventure," Thraun told him as he stopped. "Farewell my friend, and be safe. Don't die on the road, before the soldier's life even has a chance at you."

Hadvar chuckled, "I will. I hope I don't find what you found," he said thoughtfully.

Thraun smiled sadly, "Neither do I." It was the truth. He hoped things had changed since his time, but rarely do things reshape so drastically in three years' time. But sometimes things do; perhaps they had, and hopefully for the better. The two friends embraced briefly before Hadvar mounted his horse. Thraun watched him alone for a while as he rode south, beside the creek and past the farms, up the hill, into the woods, and out of sight. Even then, he knew that nothing would ever be the same.


	15. Chapter 15: The Dream

_An elf lunged from behind a tree, hoping to skewer the man on his blade. He twisted and parried the strike, and in the same motion, decapitated him. Four lay dead around him, and one more was fleeing through the trees. He thought he could evade him? The man followed from a distance, and someone moved with him. Weaving between the trees, an unseen watcher. The man didn't seem to notice him, and neither did the elves. Seven more were pursuing him, some chasing with weapons drawn, others casting spells at him. None of them hit, the trees deflecting many blows intended to destroy him._

 _The trees gave way to a clearing, the great white spire of the Imperial City could be seen not far off. The man was supposed to be there: he had brought an army. He needed to meet with Joanna; the general was expecting him. But he saw the elf...he couldn't let him go again. He gave his subordinate the command, and lied that he was going to scout east. Fruitless it now seemed, as he'd lost sight of his quarry. That became even less important, as the rest of the elves had now caught up. They circled him, as a pack of wolves might a lone, shuttering deer. They had most certainly picked the wrong person to hunt._

 _"You need not follow him into oblivion," the man said as he raised his sword. "Turn around and leave him; I will not pursue you. This is my only offer of mercy."_

 _"And slink away across the sea?" one spoke up. "Elves will never cower to man, Nord. Hasn't this war taught you that?"_

 _He sighed, "The only thing this war has taught me is that men will not relent until every single one of you are dead. And I shall prove it."_

 _They lunged, and the man was ready for them. His technique was flawless, effortlessly parrying strikes and moving to create space, stabbing back and hitting his targets. He killed another four seemingly in an instant, their clothes and armor stained in their bearer's blood. As his steel met their shields, it would leave deep marks in them, and with every clang small flames danced off into the air. His weapon was wrapped in glowing red streams all up and down the blade: an enchantment! He felled another two, and the last he skewered like a hog as he tried to run away._

 _"You watch from the shadows, hm?" he bellowed. The watcher slunk away a bit. "Show yourself, Gothwail! I swear by all the gods, this will be your last day!"_

 _A tendril of glowing purple cracked through the air, smacking the Nord in his chest and sparking against his armor. He collapsed under the blow, gasping for breath. The elf he had chased to the clearing sauntered from the tree line, sword in one hand, the other still crackling with magicka. He approached the fallen man slowly, and stamped his boot onto his sword hand._

 _"You always were defiant, Wuulfarth."_

 _10th Frostfall, 4E 189_

Thraun shook from his bedroll, just as he saw more purple light jolt from the elf's hands. His father's scream still rang in his ears. Was that the end? A fucking elf, too cowardly to use his blade, tortured his father to death with _magic_?

He looked around the camp: he hadn't gone anywhere. His horse still stood calmly beside him, staring across the waters of the lake. Yet he truly had been somewhere else. He saw faces he'd never seen. He saw places he'd never been to. Granted, he knew _around_ where the scene unfolded: somewhere in the woods above the Niben, where he had often patrolled while in the legion. And he saw his father.

He not only saw him...he felt him. He felt what he saw, he sensed what was running through his head. The mind couldn't conceive that, could it? Not in a dream; it was impossible, yet it was the truth.

"What did you see?" croaked a leathery voice. The old wanderer had been coming more frequently, in tandem with the increase in the amount of dreams he was having.

"You know what I saw, Odin," Tharun said, annoyed. "You have been coming after my dreams for weeks. How would you know to ask if you didn't send them yourself?"

"I do have a history of meddling," he admitted. "But if I had the power to send you dreams, boy, I would deliver happier memories."

Thraun sat up, "So it _was_ a memory?" he asked. "Not a dream of my own making?" Odin stood leaning against his walking stick, his face strained in apprehension.

"Is it true?" Thraun persisted. "Did the elf kill my father?"

"Yes," he answered after a pause. "Gothwail you heard him called, and indeed that was the name by which he deceived his enemies, and convinced the Thalmor to wage war upon the empire. But that was not his _true_ name. Your father would have known him as Ulundir for a time, and so would you."

"My first dream," he recalled. The dimly lit room, the elves, their plans. Thraun saw it through Ulundir's eyes. "How did my father know him?" he asked.

Odin shifted on his walking stick, "He was a Blade, a once dedicated servant of Talos. He was your father's predecessor, and recruited him when his life was at its bleakest."

"He was grandmaster? Why did he leave?"

"That I'm afraid, even _I_ do not know. But it would solve a lot of questions, wouldn't it?" Damn that old man. He either knew too much or too little, depending on how much you wanted to know!

"Why did my father call him Gothwail, if he knew that was a false name?"

"I believe your father was taunting him," Odin voiced. "Yes, that's what I think. Your father no longer knew him as _Ulundir_ , his friend. He was not worthy of bearing the name of the elf who once served Talos so loyally, and so your father mocked him with the name he had taken for himself. _Gothwail_ , the murderer and traitor that he had become." More trivia. What did any of this have to do with him? Everything he'd seen was in the past; it wasn't something he could change. What mystery was there to uncover that had any bearing on where his life might go? Why couldn't he just have one peaceful night's sleep?

"Why have you been coming?" Thraun asked him, turning away to pack up his bedroll. "Why have I been having so many dreams of late?"

"Because soon, and for a long time, you and I will see very little of each other," he confided. "And when we meet again after that, it will be our _last_ meeting. It is important that you see what needs to be seen. That you know what must be done."

"Vague as always," Thraun said. He never had been fond of riddles, not since his mother had made him read that red book full of them.

"The tree cannot bear fruit before its time," he offered in explanation. "Not in _this_ climate. But I promise you, before I leave this world you will know everything you need to know."

"Know about what?" he asked. Odin had alluded to some secret destiny before, but he never elaborated.

"About what you will have to do."

Thraun didn't bother looking back. He knew the old man had departed. 'Wonderful,' he thought. He didn't know what weighed more on his mind: the irritation of having these ill-definied statements rattling around his head, or the satisfaction that he wouldn't have to see Odin again for some time. He'd grown used to the old man's visits, but that hardly meant he _enjoyed_ them. Deciding not to linger on his message anymore, he kicked some dirt on the embers and mounted his horse.

He was making his way home from his latest bounty, which had taken him to the northern borders of Falkreath. The Battle-Borns owned a lodge on shores of Lake Ilinalta that had been overrun by bandits, and one of their sons nearly died trying to fend them off. Apparently none of them were doing much battling these days. In any case, he was glad to take the job. He'd been doing so much work around Whiterun hold that traveling was a good change of pace. Since he joined the Companions, he'd been discovering more of Skyrim: he travelled west with the twins, exploring the many crags of the Reach, and barely avoiding a conflict with the wild folk. He'd seen the great windmill of Solitude, waded through the chilly, fog-obscured (and supposedly vampire-infested) moors of Hjaalmarch, and stared in awe at the ever-autumn forests of the Rift.

But of all the places he went to, Falkreath was by far his favorite. He loved the woods; always had. Fishing in the streams, hunting wild game, or just walking among the tall pines. The woodlands was nature at its most beautiful. He dreamt of building a home of his own in the forest, faraway from the maladies and disorder of the world. A place where he could raise a family, once he tired of fighting that is. For now, Jorrvaskr was more than sufficient as a second home. He rarely visited Breezehome anymore, only going if he needed some excess gold, or if after a night of heavy drinking at the Bannered Mare, it was easier to walk to his home in the plains district to sleep it off, than climb the stairs to Jorrvaskr in the wind district.

But even still, he had little use of his mother's gold anymore. He had done so many jobs, earned so much gold, that he had amassed a small fortune on his own. He used it to acquire his own horse, to upgrade his armor and weapons, and to literally buy time from Eorlund; he was becoming a highly proficient smith! A remarkable achievement indeed, seeing as he rarely spent more than a week off the job, and even then he was constantly working, training, honing his skill, becoming a warrior stronger in both mind and body. He liked to think that every night he died, and every morning he rose again, a stronger man than the day before.

After Hadvar left, Thraun convinced Ralof to join the Companions with him. He could use the training, and the Companions were widely known as some of the best warriors in all of Skyrim. Perhaps he could even put some of those skills to use and earn some extra gold? In starting, they often trained with each other and took jobs together. Both men had taken a shine to a certain auburn-haired lass, though Ralof was more outgoing in his intentions. He would train with Aela as often as he could, and started desiring to take jobs on his own. Thraun reckoned it was an attempt to impress her. Aela rarely spoke with Thraun, and he would not go out of his way to pursue her. If Ralof wanted to, Thraun would not stand in his way. It was part of the reason he took as many bounties as he could: to stay away from her, or rather, the temptation of her.

It had been weeks since he'd been home; he'd worked some odd-jobs for the locals of Falkreath. Eliminating feral beasts that were causing trouble, retrieving stolen or lost heirlooms, finding missing pets, that sort of thing. The weather was growing cold in the closing months of the one-hundred-and-eighty-ninth year of the Fourth Era, and it was not unusual to see the rain showers common to Falkreath Hold turn to flurries. One thing Thraun loved about the woods of Falkreath was that even with the cold, the forests remained evergreen. But he needed to get back to Whiterun: it was dangerous to keep so much gold on hand, and there would be even more awaiting him at Jorrvaskr.

Riding horseback made journeys much quicker. He could cut across countries, riding up to 30 miles a day. Thraun had already passed through Riverwood, eating a noontime meal with Alvor and Sigrid, and their happy little one year-old. Yes, he would pass through the gates of Whiterun very soon. He made camp once more at the base of the mountains, just where the road emerged from the trees.

 _15th Frostfall, 4E 189_

Sunlight glittered off the frozen dew clinging to the browning grass of Whiterun's plains, its golden sheen only obscured when his shadow passed over it. Frost had descended upon Skyrim, and the chill reminded him of his time trekking through the mountains nearly a year ago. Soon these plains would be covered in snow, as would the streets of Whiterun.

Gods he had grown a great deal in that time. He'd turned nineteen in Sun's Dawn, back when he was still living in Riverwood. He never told Alvor or Sigrid or his friends about his birthday; it just made him too miserable. It had come and gone again, his third birthday without a mother, and it was just another day to the world. Why not treat it as such?

He pinned up his horse, Bayard he'd named him, at the stables as dusk fell again. He fed him a bit of hay from his hand, stroking his crest affectionately before departing. The streets had grown quiet, a few folks lingering in the courtyard bathed in the lamplight of the inn. He nodded politely to them as he passed, ascending the stairs to the famed mead-hall. The Gildergreen had begun to drop her leaves, but she still drew the attention of everyone in the wind district. The stars couldn't be seen behind the thick, grey clouds forming in the sky, but a bit of light stabbed through from the twin moons.

Stepping through the door, he found a familiar sight: brawling. The twins and Komas were jeering at yet another fistfight between Gazok and Sigurn. None of the circle members were there, nor were Aela, Ralof, or Orvar. Taluru sat calmly by the fire, switching between glancing at her book and at the battle. She was the first to notice him, giving him a curt nod which he returned. Everyone else was so engrossed in the brawl that they hadn't heard him come in.

"Mind her left," Thraun called to the Orc, who always seemed to lack the upper hand in these skirmishes. He glanced over at him, still on his back, and Sigurn took full advantage of the distraction, pummeling him in the face.

"Thraun!" Farkas shouted, running and wrapping him up in a big hug. Aela was right when she first described him: loyal as a hound.

"Put me down you big pup," Thraun said with a smile.

"You've been gone over a month!" Farkas declared jovially. "We were wondering if you were ever coming back. We almost sent a party out to find you!"

"Yes, a letter would have been helpful," Vilkas added. Thraun extended his hand in greeting, and the two clasped forearms.

"Apologies," Thraun offered. "I wound up taking a few extra jobs in Falkreath," he paused for a moment, looking around the room. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

"The Harbinger went down to his room about an hour ago," Vilkas started. "Skjor is searching for an escaped prisoner in the Pale. Orvar, Aela, and Ralof just got back from a job in the Rift, tracking down and killing a large group of bandits that'd been harassing Ivarstead."

"And where is Stennar?" he asked eagerly. The aging Nord had become a close friend and mentor, even more so than Kodlak.

"He's resting too," Farkas explained. "Been doin' a lot of reading lately, stayin' up all night lookin' at books, and talkin' with some scholar from the college in Winterhold."

"What in oblivion for?" Thraun asked.

"He has yet to tell us," Vilkas answered. "But it's important enough for him to lose sleep over, so I'm sure we'll find out sooner or later."

Thraun nodded his understanding, "And what have _you two_ been doing while I was away?" Thraun asked sarcastically. "Sitting on your asses? I should hope not," he joked.

The brothers patted him on the back and handed him a pint. Thraun drank and hollered and laughed with them, watching as the orc lost once again. Komas welcomed him back with a challenge, and Thraun answered eagerly. They sparred for a moment, before Thraun got the better of him. He submitted him with an arm bar, and helped the elder veteran to his feet afterward, sharing another drink with him. As midnight came and went, Thraun became ever more tired; he finished his drink and descended below, seeking a warm bed to fall into. It was very good to be home.

* * *

 ***A/N***

 **So obviously I took some creative liberties in this chapter, in regards to Skyrim's climate. We never really see detailed, in-game changes in Skyrim's weather patterns as the year goes on. I wanted to make it seem more realistic by giving it seasonal changes. When describing landscapes or weather, I pretty much equate Skyrim's climate and landscape to that of Alaska (minus the midnight suns, but a period of prolonged darkness might make for an interesting story). Anyways, I just wanted to explain a bit of my creative process, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	16. Chapter 16: Two Hearts, One Woman

_15th Frostfall, 4E 189_

Upon entering the lower levels, he saw Aela sitting up in her bed sharpening a dagger. Thraun turned around to go back upstairs before she noticed him; they hadn't spoken in weeks, and truthfully, he was trying to avoid her.

"Thraun?" Aela called as he was opening the door. He cursed himself and shut it back quietly, turning around.

"Leaving already?" she asked him playfully.

"No," Thraun lied. "I just left my ale upstairs and I wanted to retrieve it before one of the drunks got their hands on it." He was more acquainted with lying than he would like to admit. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

She rose from her bed, tossing the dagger back onto the furs, and met him in the hallway. She had changed out of her armor, wearing a slim red tunic and tan pants. She was barefoot.

"I don't know why," she said. "Ralof and Orvar passed out as soon as their heads hit the pillow. I should be just as tired as they are, but I find myself restless."

"Your mind is still in the mood to fight," Thraun told her. "Once it realizes how fatigued your body is, and that you're no longer in danger, sleep will soon follow." The Legion taught him that. Soldiers could often stay up for days on end when in enemy territory, but once they were out of danger, complete mental shutdown ensued. It wasn't uncommon for a highly exhausted soldier to sleep for whole days at a time before returning to normal.

"But you've just got back from a _month_ away," she started, "and you seem well rested?"

"Oh, but I haven't had a proper night's sleep in weeks," Thraun admitted. "It's hard to rest easy when you're sleeping with both eyes open on a bed of pine needles and your only sentry is a thousand-pound, four-legged beast afraid of its own shadow. Now that I'm home, I think I could sleep for a week." He rubbed his hand across the stubble sprouting on his chin and neck, "But first, I need a shave."

Aela smirked, "You need a _bath_ ," she quipped. "And don't get too comfortable. Kodlak has a job for us."

"Already?" Thraun asked. He certainly wasn't excited. When returning from a job, he preferred to rest for a few days before taking another.

" _Yes_ ," Aela responded sharply. "We can wait a day or two if you need rest, but we must be going before week's end." Thraun could groan, but there was no use whining about it.

"We'll leave at midday tomorrow," Thraun asserted. Aela nodded and Thraun walked towards Arnbjorn's former room, which they had been using as a wash room and changing area. Then a question caught in his throat.

"Hang on," he called back after her. " _Us_?"

"You and me equals _us_ , does it not?" she responded.

"Why both of us?" He hadn't taken a partner on a job in months, the most recently being Ralof back in Last Seed.

"The Harbinger doesn't want to take any unnecessary risks on this job," she affirmed him, albeit confused at the surprise in his voice. "What's your concern?"

"I suppose none," Thraun replied. "Except that now I'll have to split the gold," he joked. Aela frowned, returning to her bed. Thraun removed his armor in the changing room and lay down in the furthest bed from her.

 _16th Frostfall, 4E 189_

Aela was gone by the time Thraun woke. Gazok had stumbled down some time in the night; four mead bottles littered his bedside. Sigurn snoozed comfortably atop him, her bare back covered partially by furs. Thraun was glad he slept through the...commotion. He'd woken up in the heat of things before, much to his discomfort. He sat up in his bed, wiggling his toes and cracking his ankles as he yawned and stretched. He reached for the bowl on his bedside table, dousing some water on his face to wash the sleep from his eyes. He grabbed a shirt for his drawer and investigated the hallway.

Stennar sat at a table in the hall, feverishly reading a book while munching on an apple. His eyes were remarkably keen for a man of his age.

"What are you reading?" Thraun asked his elder friend. It started him, but Stennar's frown turned to a grin at his sight.

"Thraun! Good to see you my young friend," he said, embracing his kinsman in a long hug before holding his shoulders and staring at him.

"It's been too long!" he exclaimed. "That Battle-Born job shouldn't have taken you all that time."

"I took on some extra work from the locals in Falkreath," Thraun explained. "But I got the job done. The Battle-Born's should have no problem getting into their lodge, unless some other bandits have already moved in."

"That would be unfortunate," Stennar agreed.

"You've been busy as well, I hear," Thraun commented. "Farkas tells me you've been meeting with someone here, every night."

"Aye, a scholar from Winterhold," Stennar said.

"To what end?" Thraun inquired. He wondered if these meetings had anything to do with the Kodlak's task.

"Well, while you were away, this elf approached us, claiming he knew where he might find more pieces of Wuuthrad."

"Wuuthrad?" Thraun asked.

"Haven't you noticed the few pieces mounted on the wall upstairs?" Stennar asked. In truth, Thraun had walked passed them dozens of times, but he'd never noticed them. "They're part of the battleaxe wielded by Ysgramor during the Return. And Ysgramor, as you ought to know, founded the Companions. Gods boy, don't you know anything of Nord history?"

"Oh, because that's common knowledge is it?" Thraun snarked.

"Regardless," Stennar continued, "We were all skeptical of him: it's not everyday that someone _happens_ to turn up on our doorstep with information about one of the Companions' most coveted artifacts. And if someone does, they're never just giving information away. Not without something in return. Kodlak wanted nothing to do with him, and Skjor wanted throttle him just to be safe. But being the sensible one, I agreed to meet with him. I'm glad I did; he shared many unknown or long forgotten documents, letters, what have you, each referring in some way to Wuuthrad."

"So this is the job Kodlak insists I take? You want me to go crawling through some dank cavern in search of an axe piece, based on a pile of ancient scribbled letters, given to you by someone you barely know. Am I following you?"

"Aye, you've got it all down," Stennar agreed. "Granted, he's an intemperate fellow and I don't much like him, but I believe we can trust him. He knows more of the history of the Companions than any of the actual _living_ companions."

"Is that what he told you?" Thraun asked skeptically.

"It's what he proved to me," Stennar retorted. "Here," he grabbed the book he was reading from the table and shoved it into Thraun's hands. It was clearly old, and gave off a musty odor.

"So your willing to believe anything he says because he gave you an old book?"

"What do you think, wiseacre?" Stennar deadpanned.

" _An History of the Companions_ _Vol. 3, by Melarim Sillonore,"_ Thraun read aloud. "Dated, 2E 394. Ah, so it's a _very_ old book."

"I'll ignore that for now," Stennar replied, glaring at him. "It's whats _in_ the damn book that matters."

Stennar grabbed it back from him, and flipped rapidly through the pages until at last resting somewhere around the middle.

He began reading, _"...Wuuthrad last saw conflict more than three thousand years ago (at the time of this writing), when Borgas the Bold, the last king in Ysgramor's line, led his forces into Cyrodiil, to urge war against the Bosmer. His entourage fell victim to the Wild Hunt, a savage ritual practiced by the natives of Valenwood. They were beset on all sides by vicious beasts, all of whom had once been wood elves according to legend. Their ferocity could not be contested, and Borgas wrote before his death that he and his company, "...marched all this way to (our) doom." From the horde emerged_ _a creature without equal among the throngs, who struck hard his claw upon Wuuthrad's blade, shattering it,_ _and the fragments of that noble and terrible weapon are believed to have blown all across the Fatherland."_ He concluded with a proud grin, shutting the book.

"You realize this account is proof of nothing," Thraun urged Stennar, who repeated his previous glare. "While I'm no scholar of history," he admitted, "it's clear that this book only speculates what happened to the fragments, not what _actually_ became of them. How do you know this won't be a huge waste of time?" he asked.

"Indeed it may be," Stennar begrudgingly agreed. "And if it is, I'll be having more than a few _words_ with that big-headed highbrow. But until we know for sure, we need to take him at his word."

"Why?" Thraun asked. He wasn't trying to be sarcastic, he just couldn't understand why they placed so much value in an axe from a bygone age.

"Because I'm not going to allow even the chance of reacquiring the greatest heirloom of our order to pass me by. And dammit boy, I'm too decrepit to do it myself, so I need you to!" Thraun was genuinely surprised: he'd never seen the typically jovial Nord in such an uproar.

"All right," Thraun conceded, raising his hands in submission, "Don't want your heart to give out over this." Stennar's smile quickly returned.

"Thank you, boy," he said. "You know Aela requested to accompany you." His statement confused Thraun.

"Requested? She made it seem like she'd been assigned," he stated, his head spinning with thoughts. He was mildly insulted, "Does she think _I_ can't handle it?"

"Not at all," Stennar assured him. "But I think she does feel responsible for you in some way, seeing as she brought you on. And this isn't an easy job, either. Despite how she presents herself, she cares a great deal for all of us. And besides that, Kodlak's not the type to put new bloods into situations they can't handle. If he put you on this job, he thinks you're ready for it."

"Very well," Thraun concluded. "Is there anything I ought to know before setting out? Now that I think about it, I haven't even been told where I'm headed."

"Oh, well the scholar presented a map in addition to the book" Stennar answered. "I gave it to Aela this morning, as she was actually _awake_ before midday. She's upstairs studying it, trying to prepare as best she can for the job. You ought to take notes, boy. She'll be on the circle someday," Stennar concluded in a huff.

"I'm sure she will," Thraun concurred. "Gods, it's already passed noon?" He almost never slept in that late. "I shouldn't've had that last pint."

"Well, get a move on," Stennar prodded. "A long ride on horseback might just do you some good."

Upstairs, Aela was facing towards the fire of the great hall, her back to him. Her knuckles rested on the table, neck arched down looking at what could only be the map.

"Where to?" Thraun asked her. She glanced in his direction, then back at the map.

"You're late," she replied. "I thought I would have to wake you."

"Why didn't you?" Thraun asked, irritated.

She ignored him, "Why aren't you dressed? It's passed noon," she scolded.

"Oh, and was I supposed to know that downstairs?" Thraun retorted. "Tell me where we're going first, then I'll get dressed."

"You're an idiot," she chided him. Thraun stuck out his tongue. "We're going to Shimmermist Cave," she answered. "It's 40 miles northeast of Whiterun, give or take. I suspect we can be there before tomorrow evening if we're lucky. The map that scholar gave Stennar cites it as a potential location for a fragment."

"Potential, maybe, might. I don't like all this speculation," Thraun commented.

"Honestly, I think this is going to be a wasted trip," she confessed. "Kodlak and Skjor had searched for them years ago, and despite their best efforts, were not able to produce even a single fragment. But I'll humor Stennar. I've never been to Shimmermist; some guards say they've seen _Falmer_ around that cave."

"Don't be ridiculous," Thraun scoffed. "No one's seen a snow elf in thousands of years."

"Not a true snow elf, no," Aela agreed. "But the cretins who inhabit these caves are their descendants. There aren't many people who've ever seen them and lived, so I know very little about them. We must be doubly cautious: the beasts of Skyrim are made of sterner stuff than most."

Out of the corner of his eye, Thraun glimpsed Ralof come in from the back, a longbow in his hand and a quiver fastened to his belt.

"I'll get dressed and then we'll go," he said quickly to Aela. Ralof saw him just then, and beckoned to his friend.

"Ralof," Thraun said warmly, meeting him halfway with a hug.

"A whole month," Ralof started. "Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Protecting the province," Thraun said sarcastically. "Earning some gold, drinking some ale, the usual work-related stuff."

"Are you going somewhere now?" Ralof asked him. "We should grab a pint to celebrate your return!"

"I'm afraid it'll have to wait," Thraun said. "I'm actually getting ready for another job. Aela and I are riding north today, for Shimmermist Cave."

"Perhaps I'll join you," Ralof suggested eagerly. The proposal made Thraun uncomfortable, but he didn't let that show. "I'm ready for some more work."

 _'_ _Sure you are,'_ Thraun thought.

"No," Aela said quickly. Ralof and Thraun both looked at her in confusion. She was puzzled for a moment as well, before explaining her outburst, "The Harbinger has insisted this job be done by us two, alone." Ralof was silent for a moment.

"I see," he said finally, skeptically. His tone went from genial to cold in a matter of seconds. "Well, you two be careful." He pushed past the two of them, making for downstairs. Thraun glanced at Aela again before following him into the lower chamber.

"Ralof wait a moment," Thraun called to him. He turned and was practically touching noses with Thraun.

"I don't want to keep you from your job," Ralof responded. "Especially if the Harbinger has deemed it so important for the both of _you_."

"It's not like that," Thraun pleaded. "I don't know why Kodlak is sending just us, but the old man has his reasons."

"I don't give a damn about the job," Ralof dismissed him. "I care about _her_. I know what the guards think lives in that cave, and she shouldn't be going somewhere so dangerous."

"Well, I hope you share the same amount of concern for me," Thraun responded. It was obvious before that Ralof had an interest in Aela, but now (and to Thraun's dismay) it was confirmed.

"I know you can take care of yourself," Ralof said, disregarding Thraun's remark. "Just...take care of her."

"I would give my life for hers, if need be," Thraun assured him.

Ralof still looked troubled as he disappeared into the sleeping area. Thraun didn't have anymore time to spend reassuring his friend of Aela's safety; he had work to do. Aela was a swift rider, precise with an arrow, and skilled with a blade. She knew how to hunt, she knew how to track, she knew how to fight. She knew how to survive; Aela could take care of herself far better than he ever could. Thraun grabbed his sword, strapped on his armor, and met her at the stables. He tried not to dwell on Ralof during their ride; he was after all still curious about why she lied to him. Thraun was fairly certain that Kodlak never made any stipulation about who could and could not operate on this job. That wasn't the old man's way. There was also the matter of why she had lied to him about requesting to go with him. Stennar gave good advice, but Thraun needed to hear the reasoning from the horse's mouth.

"Stennar told me you requested to accompany me," Thraun said suddenly. They had already ridden several miles without speaking.

"So?" she asked absent-mindedly. She hadn't even looked his way.

"So, you made it seem like the Harbinger had commanded we go together. Why'd you lie?"

She stopped her horse immediately. She had been a bit ahead of him, so she turned her mount around to face him.

"I _never_ lied," she said sternly. She rode up beside him and stared hard into his eyes, green into blue, "And if you ever say I did again, I'll knock you off your horse."

"But you didn't tell the whole truth," Thraun replied. "Stennar made no mention of the Harbinger assigning you. He told me you asked to come along."

"An old man hears what he hears," Aela said dismissively. "Kodlak thought it might be safer if someone accompanied you, and I volunteered."

"Alright fine, but why did you tell Ralof he couldn't come?" he persisted. "If safety is your concern, wouldn't more of us make us safer?"

"Safety _is_ my concern, which is why I made sure he stayed," she answered. "Let's be honest, you and I both know Ralof is hardly the best warrior amongst us. I didn't want to bring him into a situation that he wasn't prepared for. I didn't want to put his life unnecessarily at risk."

"That's funny," Thraun started. "He said the same about you." Aela gave him a confused look, and Thraun grinned smugly.

"Aye, he's taken quite a shine to you," he explained. "Why do you _really_ think he's been working bounties with you? Or training with you as often as he can?"

"Where his affections lie is none of my business," she said. "If he presses his intentions, they will be completely unrequited."

"You don't want a husband?" Thraun asked. "I've seen the way he looks at you. He would kill for you; he would certainly die for you. He's made that clear to me, without outright saying it. He would be devoted to you, unfailingly. He loves you."

"Perhaps I don't want that," she replied. She didn't speak for a moment, and two of them trotted along on their horses in silence. Thraun awaited elaboration with bated breath.

"I've seen eighteen winters," she said finally. "When my mother was my age, she was pregnant with me; she gave her life to bring me into this world. And I've...well I haven't been careful enough to avoid such a fate for myself. I had a scare not long before you showed up: I took a job for a local farmer, and his son. We slept together in the stable beside his house. He wasn't my first, but afterwards I was six days late. That'd never happened before; I had a thousand-and-one different things swimming through my head as those days passed. The thought of dying so young, as my mother had, leaving my child an orphan. To not be able to see him or her grow up...I can't imagine a worse fate."

"I've been with no one since," she continued. "If I ever have a child, I want it to be years from now, after I have lived a bit more."

"I understand," Thraun replied. Many of his comrades in the Legion were his age, and had children of their own.

"What about you? When do you see yourself starting a family?" she asked him. Arianna.

"I would've started my family years ago," he answered honestly. He'd never been this candid with Aela before, but why not? She had once saved his life after all. "There was a woman in Cyrodiil. Someone I cared for very deeply. But I was taken from her, before I ever got a chance to ask for her hand."

"Were you ever with her?" Aela asked.

"Gods no," Thraun said, aghast. "We were practically children. I was still helping my mother look after my siblings before...well anyways, they're gone now."

By now everyone in the Companions knew of Thraun's story. The news of his family's passing, especially his mother's death, shook them all. Skjor and Stennar took it especially hard after Kodlak told them: they had been closer to his parents than anyone else alive. Hearing of Thraun's ordeal engendered something akin to respect in Skjor, for Thraun, and afterwards he became his closest martial instructor. He and Kodlak both took great care in training him, his earliest bounties he took with the two veteran warriors.

"So you've never been with a girl?" she pried on. Thraun didn't like the tone she'd adopted: it was mischievous, like when he had first met her. When he first became attracted to her. "The girls back in Whiterun would tear each other to shreds for a night with you."

"Are you seeing something I'm not?" Thraun asked, cocking his head.

"I must be," she answered coyly. "You're handsome, and you're brave. Surely you've seen at least one of those in yourself; they're both true, even if you haven't. Girls must not like that where you're from."

"Now I think you're seeing something that just isn't there," Thraun confessed. He was enjoying the game; every word she said made it harder and harder to respect Ralof's intentions.

"Maybe you're right," she admitted. "Maybe you're not brave; you're just dumb and reckless, with little regard for your own life. Maybe you're not handsome; maybe I had an ale or two before we departed."

"Well I hope I'm not riding with a drunk," Thraun started. "Though it might explain all the talking you've been doing."

"You asked first," she replied smartly. She looked far to their left, where the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. "It'll be dark before too long. We ought to make camp soon." And just like that, things were back to normal. He didn't like going back.

They'd followed the road north from Whiterun for a number of miles, but it diverted west and they went off-road until dusk. They would've been stuck with merely apples for supper, but Aela spotted a rabbit not long before nightfall and shot it from horseback. Gods she was precise. Thraun took the front, and she took the back; it hardly hit the spot. Thraun's (mostly) empty stomach and his angst regarding Aela and how to placate Ralof kept him up much of the night. However, one thing he knew for certain: sooner or later, he'd have to tell her how _he_ felt about her.


	17. A Warrior Called Home

1st Second Seed, 4E 175

 _An elf lunged from behind a tree, hoping to skewer the man on his blade. He twisted and parried the strike, and in the same motion, decapitated him. Four lay dead around him, and one more was fleeing through the trees. He thought he could evade him? The man followed from a distance, and someone moved with him. Weaving between the trees, an unseen watcher. The man didn't seem to notice him, and neither did the elves. Seven more were pursuing him, some chasing with weapons drawn, others casting spells at him. None of them hit, the trees deflecting many blows intended to destroy him._

 _The trees gave way to a clearing, the great white spire of the Imperial City could be seen not far off. The man was supposed to be there; he had troops to command. He needed to meet with Joanna; the general was expecting him. But he saw the elf...he couldn't let him go again. He gave his subordinate the command, and lied that he was going to scout east. Fruitless it now seemed, as he'd lost sight of his quarry. That became even less important, as the rest of the elves had now caught up. They circled him, as a pack of wolves might a lone, shuttering deer. They had most certainly picked the wrong person to hunt._

 _"You need not follow him into oblivion," the man said as he drew his sword. "Turn around and leave him. This my only offer of mercy."_

 _"And slink away across the sea?" one spoke up. "Elves will never cower to man, Nord. Hasn't this war taught you that?"_

 _He sighed, "The only thing this war has taught me is that man will not relent until every single one of you are dead. And I shall prove it."_

 _They lunged, and the man was ready for them. His technique was flawless, effortlessly parrying strikes and moving to create space, striking back and hitting his target. He killed another four seemingly in an instant, their clothes and armor stained in their bearer's blood. As his steel met their shields, it would leave deep marks in them, and with every clang small flames danced off into the air. His weapon was wrapped in glowing red fibers all up and down the blade: an enchantment! He felled another two, and the last he left alone as he ran away._

 _"You watch from the shadows, hm?" he bellowed. The seer slunk away a bit. "Show yourself, Ulundir! I swear by all the gods, this will be your last day!"_

 _A tendril of purple cracked through the air, smacking the Nord in his gut and sparking against his armor. He collapsed under the blow, gasping for air. The elf he had chased to the clearing sauntered from the tree line, sword in one hand, the other still crackling with magicka. He approached the fallen man slowly; one arm still reached for his sword, the other lay trapped beneath his back. The elf stamped his boot onto his sword hand._

 _"You always were defiant, Wulfharth."_

 _He forced more lightning into his body, and the man screamed loudly at the torture. Second after agonizing second he endured it, until the elf stopped and laughed._

 _"You know, I never wanted to kill you," he said defensively. "You were our greatest warrior, the champion of the Blades. A living, breathing symbol of all that man could achieve. You simply_ _**had**_ _to go."_

 _"Why?," the man rasped, his body still smoking from the elf's lighting, "Why did you betray us?"_

 _"Because I had something the Blades lacked: ambition. It was bred out us, but we had once been conquerors. I conceived a vision that would bring all of Tamriel under one regime, and I was cunning enough to see it through. I would not be bound by the laws of our order. My death was a lie, as you now know."_

 _"Soon it will be a reality," the man said coldly. "I am sorry I ever called you a friend." The elf laughed once more!_

 _"That's why I brought you on, Wulfharth, all those years ago. You don't know when to quit. You fought to the very last, and I respect that in a way. But alas," his tone grew dangerous, "your fight is done."_

 _His hand hissed with new ferocity as he raised it high, summoning all the power within him into his gnarled, pale fingers. But the man's fight was not over. Not just yet. He wrenched his arm from under his own weight, and drove a dagger into Ulundir's calf._

 _"Arrrgh!," he cried, Wulfharth kicking him in hard on the backside. He fell onto the ground, and Wulfharth rose, taking hold of his sword again and raising it high to strike down his foe. The devious elf rolled over and struck out again with his magic, and Wulfharth was tossed onto his back. The elf mended his wounded leg with a spell, but it was still quite tender and he could not go very fast. Through the trees he slunk, jumping at the caw of every crow, the rustle of every branch, even his own steps through the woods. He was right to be afraid: he put too much faith in his magic, and his blow was not deadly to the man now rushing through the forest after him. The lightning might've been lethal, were it not for his armor._

 _He disguised his movements well, running when the winds blew strong to mask the sounds of his rushing feet, and stalking quietly when they faded away, heel-toe, heel-toe. The elf hadn't yet detected him, but he ran as if he had! He looked over his shoulder constantly, stopping at times to listen for anything that did not resonate as nature did. He could see the edge of the forests, and through them the battle underway near the base of the hills. His forces were engaged with the Nords, and those who had come with Wulfharth were now joining the battle. Even with the addition, the HUMANS did not appear to be winning._

 _He was engrossed in the battle; he did not hear Wulfharth sneaking towards him. That sneaking became a sprint, and he kicked Ulundir hard on the back, sending him rolling down the hill. He followed, but not as quickly as the elf fell. The tumble didn't seem to slow him down a bit, as he was up and blending into the battle quickly after. Wulfharth followed, and as he waded through the fray, any foe who came within the reach of his blade died upon it. They fought on the banks of the Niben, and Wulfharth glimpsed the elf weaving his way through man and mer, closing on the only bridge across the water, where fighting was also thick. The watcher floated above it all, witnessing the carnage of that dreadful battle, what would prove to be the_ _last battle of the Great War_. _The ring truly did run red on that day._

 _Wulfharth sprinted for the bridge, and was lucky the elf had been caught in a skirmish. He hard the familiar-CRACK-of lightning, saw the flashes of violet burst above and overshadow the men. He was so surrounded that he actually had to use his sword. Ulundir was, at best, above average with a blade. But Wulfharth could cut him down and to pieces without much effort at all. It was his potent skill with the arcane that kept him at bay. Wulfharth leapt from the crowd at the elf, with such ferocity and surprise that he could only watch the Nord's fist as it pounded into his jaw. He grabbed him by his neck and heaved him to the other side of the bridge. Gothwail retaliated with a powerful spell, dislodging the sword from Wulfharth's hand. He grinned wickedly, and thrust his blade towards Wulfharth's gut. He wielded swords in mockery of the warriors he cut down: weapons were, after all, beneath a sorcerer of such mastery. What were slings and arrows compared to the storm of power within him?_

 _Wulfharth caught the blade before it could pierce him, and grappled briefly with his master as his hands were cut. He acted quickly, pulling the blade closer to him. He drew the elf near and elbowed him in the nose, then arm-drug the elf into the side of the bridge, slamming the fiend hard on his back. He struck the hand that held the sword, both with his fist and with his knee, causing he elf to release the blade in pain. A swift backhand from the man had the elf rocked, and he followed that with two more blows to the face. He would have beaten Gothwail to death, but was taken off guard by a powerful shock that came from the traitor's hand. Another came and another, and the arcane blows were dizzying, each sending a jolt of pain through his whole body. Wulfharth collapsed to the ground writhing, and Gothwail leaned against the wall of the bridge to recuperate. The stubborn Nord warrior climbed to his feet in a stupor, wobbling at his knees, and having to take several steps not to fall over._

 _"Let me go, Wulfharth," Gothwail pleaded. "Just…just let me leave."_

 _"The world will suffer if I do," he answered slowly. With a loud roar, Wulfharth charged haphazardly towards the elf, swinging wildly with nothing but his fists. Gothwail ducked beneath the blow, and rose slashing at Wulfharth's midsection with the dagger the Nord had used against him, before finishing by planting it deep in his side. He felt the air escape him in a rush, but hadn't the wherewithal to breathe any back in. He was only able to think about the blade sticking in him, and how it appeared he had come at last to his end. A rush of pain brought him back to reality as the elf withdrew the knife from his gut, and brought it to his throat. Wuulfarth locked eyes with his former mentor briefly, and it seemed to stall him just a bit._

 _Before he could finish the deed, a loud thunder and a wave of clear blue enveloped him, and sent him flying away. The knife cut his neck slightly as the hand that held it was blown asunder. His knees buckled and he collapsed, rolling into his side. His vision blurry, he couldn't quite make out the figure that strode past him, especially not as quickly as it did. He had strength enough to sit up and rest against the side of the bridge. As his senses began to flee him, he watched as out of the smoke strode three figures, two men and a woman, all of whom seemed altogether human, yet somehow grander and more beautiful than mere mortals could be. Wulfharth could not tell if they were indeed real, but they nonetheless felt so. They came close and stopped before him, and simply stared down at him._

 _"Who are you?" he asked slowly. The tallest of them stepped forward, in white robes with gleaming golden epaulets, a silver belt at his waist; he bore no weapons. His eyes were kind, and a flowing beard drooped down to his chest._

 _"We are lords of the heavens," he said. "We who gave breath to your lungs and who have watched over you for a very long time. We are your father, mother, and brother, at long last come to greet you, our kin."_

 _Wuulfarth's eyes narrowed, "I do not understand. Are you even real? I know I am wounded," he stuttered, "yet I feel no pain. Have you come to save me? Or simply to gawk at me, and bombard me with vague declamation? Who are you?" he repeated._

 _"Do you not know your mother when you see her?" the woman among them asked. Her gown was blue and silver, with long sleeves, and she wore a necklace of white stone in the shape of a bird on a silver chain, with a round, turquoise stone at its heart. "Look upon the woman who gave life to you, and anguish no more."_

 _"So, what have you to say then, Divines?" Wulfharth asked, shaking his head. "Will you condemn me for failing you? I could not save your city."_

 _"The battle is far from over," the third spoke. He looked broad and strong, a large hand resting upon a sword in a red sheath. He was dressed in steel armor, a dragon crested on his breast, and a crimson cape flowing off his back. "It is just a city; hewn rock and cut wood. It can be rebuilt. But a heart like yours is no common thing, but a gem to be held high and cherished above all else."_

 _"And look where it's gotten me?" Wulfharth nagged. "Dying on a bridge at the hand of a man I would have once gladly given my life to defend. If I knew he would be killed, I would welcome death a bit more gladly. But alas, he will evade justice._

 _"You are wise, Wulfharth," the first declared, "but are you not wise enough to see that you speak of vengeance, not justice. He who lives by the sword will die by it, my son."_

 _"And so I die, Father." Wulfharth mocked_

 _The elder's face grew grim, "Indeed, we have not come to save you. Only to comfort you, and to bring you peace. You will be welcomed graciously into the hall of my Brother, and find peace in that air of fellowship."_

 _Wulfharth's eyes were misty, "Aye, there they will praise me, but who here will lament me? The wolves will strip the flesh from my body, the rats will gnaw my bones to powder, and I will pass from life to legend to nothing. And I will remain nothing until the end of the world. My wife, my children, I leave them behind, never to see them again. And they will not remember me, even ME, because I am not there to be remembered. And I never was."_

 _"Your son will remember you, Wulhfarth," the second man cajoled. "He will follow the path of wisdom and courage that you have paved for him, and he will lead all races of this world to a new and lasting peace, not seen since my time here, nor ever shall be seen again. His trial may be the greatest that mortals have ever known, but he is not the last hero. He will be great among heroes and greater among men, but evil will always follow him because of his own righteousness, and both the villainous and the envious will seek to destroy him, because of this greatness. He is coming after you, and he will be greater perhaps even than myself. The heroes of old will clamor at his feet; none shall stand against him. And all the people of the world, from now until the end of time, will be bereft of such glory."_

 _Wulfharth didn't linger on the declaration, "Just as I am bereft of my family. Will I ever see them again?"_

 _"Yes love," the woman spoke. "But you will have to wait. In time, your wife will join you. And you shall see your sons again. Your eldest will be so much like you, and he will love you without ever knowing you. Such is the bonds between family."_

 _Wulfharth looked away from them, hacking up blood and glancing at his pale hands, "I feel...cold."_

 _The first stared sadly at him, "You have only so much time left, my son. But we can spend no more with you. Do not lose heart in death, Wulfharth. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. You, like your son will be, are great amongst men. We will always watch over your him, Wulfharth. Does that comfort you?"_

 _It wasn't comforting. He had two sons, and another babe on the way. What would come of the two children NOT possessing such a destiny? He looked up at them, but hey were gone, and Ulfric Stormcloak was suddenly before him, cradling him in his lap. It was like he had been awoken from a dream, suddenly rocked awake by a wave._

 _"Wulfharth? Wulfharth! Stay here, stay with me. You're fine. You're going to be fine."_

 _He attempted to speak calmly, but his quick words and rushing breaths conveyed to Wulfharth otherwise: it appeared he was indeed dying. But he dared not perish idly; if he was to die today, it would be in the heat of battle, not from a mere glancing wound._

 _He spoke calmly, "Where is Gothwail?"_

 _"The elf? Ulfric asked. "He fled after I shouted. I lost him in the fighting."_

 _"Gods curse him!" Wulfharth spat. "He knew I would defeat him, so he sank to the use of cheap tricks and magic…Help me up, Ulfric. I have to find him."_

 _Ulfric scoffed openly at that, "You'll be dead before we make it across the bridge. No, I need to fetch a healer for you. Until then, drink this." He handed him a familiar, red-liquid-filled vial. He uncorked it and gingerly held his head as Wulfharth downed it in a single gulp. The pain ebbed immediately from him, but it was far from a lasting fix. It would sustain him for as long as he needed; after a moment, Ulfric spoke._

 _"Can you stand?" he asked._

 _Wuulfarth took his hand and rose uneasily, but managed to keep on his feet._

 _"I feel I can do more than that," he said. "Come, he won't have gotten far through this horde."_

 _Wuulfarth picked up his dagger and the sword he'd dropped, and the two adeptly weaved through the battle, killing any who pursued them as they went. It wasn't long, after slaying numerous foes, that they caught sight of the wounded elf near the edge of the bridge, loudly huffing his exhaustion as he roamed. He turned and saw them close at heel, and loudly marked them a primary threat. Wulfharth could withstand the blows hardly any longer, and he collapsed under the weight of an elven sword. A shield caught him in the brow, and Ulfric quickly put an end to its wielder. He rushed towards Gothwail, but was subdued by numerous strokes of lightning from his clawed hand. Wulfharth watched him collapse, and couldn't bare to see him tortured by the elf's magic, as he had been before. Quicker than any of the other elves could react, he charged towards his once proud mentor, and cut off that fowl, venom-spewing hand. He turned and sliced at his leg, bringing his knee up to smack him under his jaw._

 _He killed the elves who followed him after his escape. Ulfric was regaining himself, and Wulfharth moved to apprehend Gothwail, now crawling away. He drew the knife that nearly killed him, and stabbed Ulundir in his leg once more. He rolled him over, pinning him under his boot. The elf raised his hands in defense, blood trickling onto his jowls._

 _"Wulfharth...Wulfharth please," he begged._

 _The Nord glowered at him mercilessly, "For my children."_

 _He thrust his blade so hard through the elf's chest that it stuck in the stone. As he raises his head, he suddenly became very dizzy and fell backwards. He managed to crawl his way to the side of the bridge wall, and rest himself up there. Ulfric found him and tried to rouse him, but it was for naught. Wulfharth asked for help removing his breastplate. He pulled a sealed envelope from his shirt, handing it to Ulfric._  
 _"For Val?" he asked. "You want me to give this-"_

 _"Not for Val," Wulfharth interrupted. "For my children. Give it to her to give to them when they are ready. Give them all of my things. My sword, my armor, give them to my eldest. He may need them someday."_

 _After that he fell silent, and looked off into the hills. He began to breathe heavily an rapidly. Ulfric did not panic: he only tried to comfort his friend as he passed. Finally his eyes grew listless and his body relaxed._

 _"Wulfharth?"_

 _Wulfharth blinked very rapidly, and it seemed life had returned to his eyes as he looked past Ulfric._

 _"I'm home." he muttered quietly._

 _He breathed his last and was no more. Ulfric closed his eyes and blessed him, "May peace find you, son of Skyrim." He never left his side until the battle had finished._

As the memory faded away, Thraun awoke on his bedroll, panting into the night.


	18. Chapter 18: Coming to Light

16th Frostfall, 4E 189

"Are you alright?" Aela asked. She had moved beside him, and had a hand on his chest, the other held the back of his head. "You were thrashing in your sleep. What kind of dream were you having?"

Thraun was still practically gasping; beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He felt the water rolling down his cheek; he was so afraid. It all made sense now: why the elves wanted him dead, why they killed his family.

"Not a pleasant dream," he said finally. "I don't want to talk about it." he pushed away her hand and lay back down, rolling onto his side.

"You don't have to hide things from me, Thraun," she said calmly, her voice soothing. She clasped his shoulder once more and walked back to her own bedroll. Thraun feigned sleep until he was certain Aela would not stir. He sat up on his mat, pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing his fingers through his hair. He just couldn't think straight, couldn't fathom the point of it.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Thraun thought of Odin as he stared into the dwindling flames. What that memory supposed to comfort him? He watched his father die! The gods surely must be cruel to send him such an image.

But then he remembered what that old meddler had said, "…what you will **_have_** to do." Thraun suspected that there was more to this dream than merely what he saw. There was always more than what could be seen. But first, he tried to remember what he actually had seen, and something became clear to him: there was only one person in his dream who he knew was still alive. Moreover, someone who knew his father, _and_ , was in Skyrim at this very moment. The esteemed Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak.

Thraun recalled what Kodlak had shared with him about his father's funeral, how Ulfric had returned his body from the battle and was present at the ceremony. He knew more about his father than even Kodlak would. More than Thraun thought _he_ needed to know. But alas, perhaps it was time for a journey to Skyrim's eldest city, to meet the man who last saw his father alive.

17th Frostfall, 4E 189

Aela was already awake, of course, getting ready for the last push towards the cave. The fire had been smothered, wisps of smoke rising towards the sky from a pile of white ash and charred logs. The horses were as unaware as always, flickering their tails around and snorting. He lay there for a moment before stretching and sitting up: Aela didn't even acknowledge his presence. He felt he owed her an apology for blowing her off.

"I'm sorry about last night," he offered sincerely. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. I know you were just trying to help."

"It's fine," she said quickly, keeping her focus on packing up her bedroll and preparing her horse. Thraun made no attempt to placate her: he knew there was no use. Kodlak had told him that her hair was red because the fire inside her burned too bright, and it needed to be seen somehow. He knew that was bullshit, but when he'd seen her at her worst, he was more inclined to believe the tale.

He'd watched her lay out four of her shield-siblings after a batch of skooma mixed with firebrand wine. The twins had to restrain her until she calmed down, and that wasn't for a good while. She'd gotten into scraps all over Whiterun hold; so many in fact, that folks had taken to calling her the "red bitch" of Jorrvaskr. She welcomed it, depending on how whoever was saying it said it: a name like that had to be earned. Given how many licks she'd dealt out, Thraun was surprised the cold shoulder was all she was giving him.

"Look, I-"

"Why don't you focus on the job, hm?" she suggested in a more annoyed tone, actually looking him in the eye that time. Thraun nodded and went back to it; there was no point in arguing.

The last few miles were quite silent, save the wind blowing through the grass or the occasional tweet of a bird. All the better: Thraun didn't like smalltalk before a job. At least not one that required killing. It just didn't seem right in his mind. He needed to ready himself for blood, and there was no room for idle conversation. He was also doing his best not to think about his vision. But the more he tried not to, the more the thoughts bored into his mind.

"This is it," Aela said suddenly, shaking Thraun from his thoughts. He hadn't even been paying attention as to where she'd led him. They had meandered a path up the mountains, dotted with massive slabs of rock jutting out from the hills. The cave entrance blended in quite well against the faces of the mountain. If Aela hadn't pointed it out to him, Thraun would never have found it. She truly was a keen navigator.

"Steel yourself, Thraun," she warned. "I have never faced a Falmer before, but if the wretches are stalking this cave, we must be ready for them."

Thraun only nodded as they dismounted, patting his horse before following Aela inside.

Blue lights dazzled on the cave ceiling, and the fungi perched on the walls were glowing. Both provided a well lit path to follow through the tunnels. It was not leisurely stroll however. Both warriors were on high alert, every sense functioning at its peak, poised to detect even the slightest disturbance. Water echoed from the tunnels beyond: a waterfall, and a pool. The rushing and splashing prevented them from hearing the shuffling of eight rather massive legs, and as they turned the corner into the adjacent chamber, they immediately shrank back into the shadows.

A spider the size of a horse loomed in a chamber across from them, perched on a natural stone bridge just above a pool of water; Thraun could see the entrance to another tunnel across the way. There was no sneaking by this beast: if they wanted any further, it would have to be eliminated.

"Any ideas?" Thraun whispered to his shield sibling.

"None," she replied honestly. "That thing is stronger and faster than either of us, and it's hide is tougher than it looks.

"But it's backside isn't," Thraun responded.

"I'm not worried about the ass-end," she deadpanned.

"Let me worry about the front," Thraun replied. "Stay behind me, and fire into its abdomen. Keep firing until I make my move: I have an idea."

Thraun drew his sword and shield, bringing it up to defend his face and raised his sword overhead, pointing in the spider's direction.

"Now," he commanded, and Aela peered over him, sending an arrow flying through the air into its abdomen. The spider squealed (Thraun didn't know they could do such a thing), and faced them, rushing forth with speed to rival a stallion. Aela fired twice more from behind Thraun, who squat virtually motionless before her, weapon at the ready. It scurried closer and closer, spewing gobs of blackish-green slime at them. Were it not for Thraun's shield they'd be covered in the stuff. Thraun knew firsthand how potent their tar-like venom was: he'd been sprayed on a job retrieving a family heirloom from a cave much like this one. Had he not been with the twins, the spider would have certainly killed him. He was only barely hit, but even that little bit left him dizzy, and his whole left side was numb for hours afterward.

"Whatever you plan on doing, do it!" Aela shouted in a panic. She'd fired several more arrows, but she may as well have been shooting at a boulder.

Thraun leapt up suddenly, rushing towards the spider. He bellowed his northern battlecry and pierced the spider right through the jaws, thrusting his blade through its mouth and out the top of its head. The spider's forward momentum forced Thraun backwards, but its corpse landed safely in front of him, his sword still lodged in its body. A good thing too, otherwise he would've been crushed!

Aela ran to Thraun's side, grabbing him his hand and supporting his back as he sat up. He coughed and rubbed the dirt out of his eyes and off his face. His knuckles were scratched, and his armor was splashed with black liquid.

"That was a stupid idea," she chided him.

"Ain't stupid if it works," Thraun replied coolly. He may have snapped at her last night, but he apologized. And he had just saved her life after all. He didn't know where all this attitude was coming from. How about a bit of gratitude?

"Being reckless is stupid, and stupid gets you killed," she continued. "If you want to live past your 20th winter, you'd better learn that now, else it'll be too late."

"What's your problem?" he barked, letting a bit of his irritation bubble over. He was hardly in the mood for a lecture, but he suspected that he'd just invited one.

"My problem is _you,_ " she began. Son of a whore. "Going out for weeks on end, alone. No one knows where you go, or when you're coming back. What if you fell off your horse and broke your leg? What if you were outnumbered and captured, or worse? You're reckless and you're arrogant, and worst of all you couldn't care less."

"How I endanger myself is my own business," Thraun countered angrily. "My life is my own to live, or die, as I like. I am not your concern. I'm not your burden or your responsibility, and I sure as shit won't be told how I'm _supposed_ to survive. I've done well enough so far!"

"How can you say that to me?" Aela asked, her tone a combination of outrage and genuine hurt. " **All** of my shield-siblings are my concern, but you especially. _I_ brought you before the circle, plead for your admission into our ranks. Don't you see? _I'm_ the one who set you on this path. If something were to happen to you, I would never forgive myself."

She paused for a moment, staring at him briefly before forcing her eyes to the ground. Thraun could see they had began to glisten with a bit of water and looked away, not wanting to cause her any shame. Her confession had left him struck; he never truly considered how deeply his death might affect his friends. Or if he did, it made him feel...awkward. Sometimes he would think about his death: if he thought that his passing might be devastating to his friends, he felt he was thinking too much of himself, and immediately thought of something else. He was not a prideful man.

Aela sucked in a deep breath and continued, "If you don't change, you're going to die. And I don't want _you_ to die."

Thraun looked back into her eyes now, closing the distance between them, his feelings for her bubbling over entirely, taking command of mind and heart. He hadn't felt this way about anyone since Arianna. He was before her now; gods she was short next to him. He rest the palm of his hand gently against her cheek, leaned down, and kissed her long and full on the lips. He didn't know whether he should or not, he only did as his heart compelled him. His gamble was rewarded as she leaned into him, returning the gesture.

When they finally pulled apart and looked at one another, both of their faces turned beet red. Thraun pressed his forehead against hers and they both smiled.

"I'm sorry," he began meekly. "I never knew how much I meant to you," he joked, still smiling down at her.

"And apparently you care more than you let on," she quipped back.

"I do," he said quietly. "Longer than you realize, I've wanted you. More and more every day."

"Since you saw me bathing in that pool, no doubt," she joked again. That kiss must've reignited her sense of humor.

"More like when you put your arrow through that Orc's skull and saved my ass," Thraun retorted. "It's not often that the woman saves the man. At least, not in where I grew up."

"Welcome to Skyrim," she said coyly, planting another long kiss on his lips before relaxing away. Thraun was happier now than he'd been in months, but even this victory was stalked by a sense of dread, which Aela detected.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, noticing the concern growing on his face.

"It's Ralof," Thraun answered. "I'm worried about how he'll accept us. He and I are as close as brothers, but he'll see this as a betrayal. He's told me more than once how he feels about you."

"I said it before, Thraun," she started, "I don't want him. Sooner or later, he would have to accept that. My heart belongs to you now, and yours to me. No one is going to change that, no matter how they feel."

She turned and plucked what arrows she could from the behemoth-arachnid's corpse, and placed all but one back in her quiver.

"We should keep on," she said, knocking the last arrow. "We still have work to do."

Thraun nodded and withdrew his blade from the spider's mouth, rinsing it in the pool to wash the blood off as best he could. There was no need for torches as they maneuvered through the caverns: The entire place was illuminated by an eery, bluish glow. They snuck their way through the winding halls a few feet at a time, careful to ensure that none of their footfalls could be heard even by themselves. Thraun had taken the lead from Aela, motivated more than ever to protect her at all costs. She was his, at last, and there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep her safe.

After navigating the winding stone corridors for some time, they came upon the entrance to a larger chamber. They paused for a moment to listen, and they both heard the echo of footfalls coming from within. They weren't from a spider, either: whatever it was, it walked on two legs.

"I need to get a look at what's out there," Thraun whispered, crouching even lower and moving ever so slowly towards the entrance. Gods, sneaking in full plate was damn near impossible. He was so focused on staying quiet that he'd forgotten Kodlak's first lesson: always mind your surroundings. He never even felt the tension of a tripwire against his boot.

*snap*

Thraun was suddenly propelled forward from a blow to the back, planting him face-first onto the cave floor. Something clanged hard against the stone, ringing throughout the hall. As he rolled onto his back, Thraun gave Aela the most confused look, until she pointed to the barbed spikes that rested where his face had been. Her quick thinking and athleticism had saved his life.

"Thanks for that," Thraun said as Aela walked past him, another arrow nocked.

"I'm taking the lead," she whispered with a glare. "That noise is boond to draw unwanted attention." Thraun didn't have time to protest before a hiss came from above them, reverberating off the walls. A large shadow appeared on the cave ceiling: a bald-headed figure came to the ledge to look down on them. It was a hideous thing, pale, gaunt, and gangling, its face almost skeletal it was so thin. Its pointy ears drooped on the sides of its head, and it had only slits where a nose should have been. But most disconcerting were its pink, squinting eyes, resting deep in its sockets. It had crafted a crude armor for itself, and a jagged, primitive looking sword rested in its hand.

It stared right at them, sniffing the air and gurgling. Thraun barely had time to think before Aela had drawn her bow and shot an arrow into its throat. It grabbed at its neck for a moment, panicking and choking on its own blood, before tipping over the ledge and landing before them. Thraun leered at the carcass, disgust marring his expression. Then he glanced over at Aela, her bow already drawn, ready to put another arrow in the creature if it came to it.

"You're a bit scary sometimes, do you know that?" he stated. He admired her skill greatly, but he didn't ever wish to find himself on the receiving end of those skills.

"You and everyone else seem to think so," she quipped back. Stalking closer, she prodded the creature with her arrow, just to be sure. "It's dead then," she confirmed.

"So _this_ is a Falmer?" Thraun questioned.

"It's uglier than I could've imagined," Aela responded. The two just studied it for a moment, taking in every detail its wretched corpse. It's pale, wrinkly skin, its narrow mouth full of jagged teeth, its long arms and legs, every finger and toe bearing pointy nails, more resembling of talons. If these were once elves, how could they have fallen so low?

As Thraun shifted his focus back to the surroundings, he noticed for the first time an awful stench. The stench of decay.

"Do you smell that?" he asked Aela with a grimace, who sniffed the air and retched.

"What the hell..." she responded with an additional gag. Thraun searched around the chamber until his nose led him underneath the ledge off of which the Falmer had fallen. Among the bones tossed indiscriminately about the rocky nook rested several mangled bodies, each at a different stage of decomposition. Some looked and smelled like they'd been there for weeks. Others looked like they could've been alive yesterday. On the fresher ones, he could make out obvious bite marks in their flesh: on their legs, arms, even their faces. Apparently they'd been...eating them, men and mer alike. One Nord's face was half torn off, his skull exposed and that eye socket empty. Another of the bodies, a wood elf by the look of it, had her entire chest cavity ripped open, her organs long gone. Her face was not marred with anguish or distorted by rot, but to Thraun's discomfort, there was no expression on it at all. One might've thought she was sleeping, if you only saw her head. Even amidst all this horror, Thraun thanked the nine that he couldn't see any signs of a child victim.

Thraun stabbed his blade into the dirt before them, then knelt and prayed over their corpses. Gods alone know how they suffered, and he pitied that they never even got the dignity of a proper burial. So he prayed that their souls dwelt in the paradise of their liking, and that their mortal bodies faced no further disturbing. When he rose, he looked to Aela, who held a hard gaze, but Thraun knew she was just as appalled as he was.

"There's bound to be more of them," he said, trying to draw her focus away from this horrible crime. "You take point. I've got your back."

She barely registered a nod, and Thraun looked one last time upon the corpses before following her further into the chasm.

'This damned thing had better be here,' Thraun thought to himself. 'Or I'm gonna throttle that fucking scholar.'

Further up, the next of the creatures they encountered never even detected them before an arrow pierced its chest. Another who had been slinking beside it had barely drawn its sword when another arrow ended its miserable life. As large as the cave was, and as far as they'd gone, Thraun was surprised they'd encountered so few of them.

There was no further sign of the wretches, that is until they came upon another chamber. This one was different, far larger and better lit than any of the preceding. The ceiling must've been fifty feet high, the space much larger than the room that housed the pool and spider. There were holes cut into the cave walls, dozens of them, large enough to fit a man or perhaps more than one. They stood atop a rocky slope, and at the center of the chamber was a deep chasm, so deep that Thraun couldn't make out its ending for certain. The rocks jutting out from the cave walls spiraled down to the base of the pit, a pathway which must've led deeper in, closer to their prize.

On the opposite side of the pit, perched lower on the ramp, were several huts, a ghostly pale blue light streaming from each of them and illuminating the chamber. To their right, Thraun spotted a pair of the rangy creatures, but Aela already had them in her sights, arrow nocked and bow drawn. Thraun turned his attention back to the huts, trying to conceive of a way to sneak past them if possible. His concentration was broken by the snap of wood and the scream of the woman he loved in pain.

Aela lay on the ground, clutching her left forearm. Even in the low light, Thraun could make out the red liquid trickling between her fingers where she held her arm. One of the creatures loomed above her; it must've been crouching in one of the holes and heard them. Worse yet, the other two Falmer had heard all of the commotion and were coming to investigate.

Thraun didn't think: he didn't have time for such intricacies. Fast as lighting he ran towards the creature, drawing his sword and leaping clear over Aela to thrust it through the ugly elf's chest. It made a last brief gargling noise before going limp on his blade. Thraun withdrew it just in time to face the other two, now making an awkward run in his direction. Thraun raised his shield to block a blow to his left. Sneaking his blade between its legs, he slashed behind its right knee, nicking the artery. He kicked it away with force, sending it sliding down the slope on its back.

The other was better armored, if such a description could be applied to the rough plates it wore. Its whole body was covered in what appeared to be insect carapaces, and it even wore an alien-looking helmet. Thraun couldn't observe a place to attack at first, but as he sparred with it, blocking and evading its strikes with ease, he noticed an opening in the pit of its arm. As soon as it raised its weapon over its head, he stabbed the creature there, causing it to drop its weapon and reach under its arm, apparently quite dazed. Thraun wasted no time, planting the tip of his sword deep into the exposed part of its face, killing it instantly.

As it fell to the ground, Thruan looked on it with more disgust than he'd ever felt for anything in his life, or at least since his family's murder. In a rage, he rammed his sword as hard as he could through the Falmer's armor, the force of the blow actually enough to pierce it. He pushed deeper and deeper through the armor, the flesh, and the dirt of the cave floor, until the weapon would move no more. He left his blade embedded in the Falmer's chest, pinning it to the ground. Squeezing the handle of his shield, he descended the slope to finish off the other creature, whom he had only wounded. It lay on the ground facing him, unable to rise because of Thraun's attack, and hissed at him as he approached. It tried to grab him as he fell upon it, but Thraun took both hands to his shield and hammered down on the wretch's skull until it was nothing but a pool of bone and blood.

He rose panting, his face partially spattered with blood. He tossed his shield aside and ran back up to Aela, who lay still on the ground by the entrance, the remnants of her broken bow resting at her feet. Her eyes were closed, and he worried she had passed.

"Aela," he whimpered once, kneeling down beside her. His hands hovered over her, unsure of how to act, how to move. "Aela," he spoke again gently, now a more desperate plea for her to wake. When he touched her arm she rose suddenly, clutching her dagger, nearly plunging it into his throat.

"Aela, it's me, it's Thraun!" he said, grabbing her hand and wrestling the dagger away. She had a very wild look in her eyes. "You're going to be alright," he cooed. "Let me see your arm."

She complied without much of a fuss, sitting up and resting her head and back agains the cool, damp stone of the cave. She was already visibly sweating and shaking, and she was growing pale. Her left forearm was caked in dried blood, though the wound appeared to have stopped bleeding. The veins in her arms and the area around the cut were starting to go black: she had been poisoned.

"Fuck," Thraun whispered to himself, not wanting Aela to hear the distress in his voice. They'd left their satchels, and by extension their healing potions, on the horses outside. Thraun didn't have time to go back for them, and even if he did, he dare not leave her side. If there were more Falmer in this cave (as he suspected there were) they would finish the job before he ever got back, and then kill _him_ once he had returned. He was running out of time: her eyes were starting to flutter, and he worried she would begin convulsing.

A while back he'd found a book while on a job. It was a tome that relayed how to use simple restoration magics, especially on the sick and suffering. Thraun had read it for kicks, but now out of all other options, he would at last attempt to utilize something he'd learned from reading. His mother, it seemed, had finally won. He reached into the very essence of his being, extending his hand over her arm and exuding golden tendrils of light from his palm. This was the first spell he'd ever cast, and took every ounce of his concentration to see it through. But as it was happening, Thraun could've laughed with joy at his success. As the rays began to spiral around her arm, the cut on slowly mended, the black that was leeching into her body ebbed away until there was no sign she'd ever been harmed at all.

Even still, she wasn't stirring. Thraun brought his fingers up and felt her neck, a faint thumping bringing him relief. He didn't want to wake her, but they needed to decide right now whether to go forward, or to abandon this relic and turn back.

"Aela," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder and shaking her slightly. "Aela, can you hear me?"

Her brow furrowed into a frown, eyes still closed. After another bout of shaking, her eyes blinked open.

"Gently lass, gently," Thraun implored as she tried to rise. "Take a moment and catch your breath."

"Wha...What happened?" she stammered. Thraun unstrapped his jug of water, and she greatly accepted its contents.

"You were poisoned and I stopped it," Thraun explained. He touched on her arm, a light scar had already begun to take shape.

"How?" she asked, perplexed by the speediness of her own recovery.

"Some other time I'll show you," he promised. "Right now, we need to move. There's no way in Oblivion we're alone in these caverns, and every Falmer around will have heard our racket. Can you stand?"

She flexed her legs and wiggled her toes inside her boots, "I think so. Help me up."

As the two began making their way down the incline, they heard a single hiss, stopping them dead in their tracks. Then another, and another, more and more coming from all directions until their ears were ringing with the sound. Falmer after Falmer jumped or climbed down from their holes, surrounding the two warriors. Thraun left Aela for a moment, running to withdraw his blade from the dead snow elf so that he might die fighting. He was surprised however, when none of them attempted to harm them. They all simply threatened, pointing their weapons at them or swinging in their direction, not actually trying to hurt them.

"I don't think they want to harm us," Thraun told Aela, still clutching her side as she regained her strength. It was a working theory, but he still didn't understand the method to their madness. "Put down your weapons," he commanded her. He was taking a _massive_ gamble here.

"They'll kill us all," Aela retorted. "I'll die sword in hand before surrendering so meekly."

Thraun stared at the creatures, each snarling, some gargling and hissing to one another. They seemed to discern these clicks and noises as some sort of language.

"I don't think so," Thraun said as he raised his free hand in surrender, tossing his weapon to the ground. Thraun prodded Aela in the shoulder, and she reluctantly did the same. A pair of the creatures collected their weapons while the rest grabbed at them and pushed them forward, guiding the two deeper into the tunnels.

After much commotion, they finally came upon an enormous stone archway. It was carved in the rock itself, not a naturally occurring formation, and looked to be ancient.

"Dwemer," Thraun said. No doubt those long lost elves had some sort of holding in this cavern. As they passed underneath, they entered the remnants of a tall stone hallway. A high, golden door stood closed at the end, and a single Falmer was guarding this entryway. He must've been a superior of some kind, as the elves corralling them seemed to be asking his permission for entry, which he obliged. Slowly opening the doors, he grabbed the two Companions and thrust them into the room, tossing them their weapons before closing the doors behind them.

This room was even larger than the previous chamber: stone columns (some of which had broken and fallen to the floor) reached dozens of feet into the air, supporting the arched, stone ceiling. A giant, metal chandelier dangled form the ceiling at the center of the room, and equally large metal pipes were attached to some of the walls. In the corner, a large pump moved up and down, up and down, as gears twice the size of Thraun's head turned behind it. He didn't understand their purpose to be sure, but he was nonetheless impressed by the Dwarven infrastructure.

Thraun grabbed his sword and moved towards the back wall, where the light was brightest. He saw a tall, golden statue resting in an arching, metal frame, and before it, a rectangular stone table. Aela grabbed her own weapons and followed, more on edge than ever now. Why the hell would those Falmer just toss them aside?

As he approached the table, covered in gears and other Dwemer artifacts of little use to him, he saw his prize amongst the clutter. A minuscule, gray, bladed fragment of that gods-forsaken axe. This was it? This was their fucking prize? They came all this way, Aela nearly dying, for this little piece of shit?

"You've got to be joking," said Tharun, voicing his displeasure.

"Is it not there?" Aela asked him, stepping into the light.

"I think I'm more furious because it _is_ ," Thraun replied, tossing her the fragment. It was no larger than his thumb.

"What's the matter?" She asked, confused. "We have what we came for, now let's get the hell out of her."

Thraun cocked his head and huffed, "Are you kidding me? We ride for two days, wade through this massive fucking cavern, both of us nearly dying, and for what? That little damn thing? And you're _okay_ with that?" he asked in utter disbelief.

"Even being _near_ that fragment brings me great honor," she confessed. "As it should you too. Ysgramor was the greatest of us, and this relic was as much a part of forging his legacy as the man himself."

Thraun was dumbstruck, "But was it worth the trouble? This could have cost us far more than a few scrapes and bruises. I don't want to spend the rest of my days crawling through mud and shit, facing a thousand swords and arrows, for such a meager payoff."

Aela only shook her head, "You'll come to find that we do not live our lives for ourselves in the Companions. We live for each other, to keep honor in our halls and the fire lit in our hearts." Her tone became very serious then, "If you want to stay with us, you need to understand that."

Thraun was prepared to argue further, until he was distracted by a loud screeching noise from behind the table. What he thought had been a golden statue suddenly lurched forward from its perch with a loud creaking and clanking, each gargantuan metal leg thundering after the other, its arms raised and bearing vast weapons. Despite the lack of emotion etched into its gleaming face, Thraun couldn't help but feel powerless as its unseeing eyes bore down upon him.

"Oh, fuck me," he muttered.

* * *

 ***Author's Note** *****

So there it is. After 3 months away, I finally posted another chapter. And let me confess, it truly was a bitch to write. I made it longer than usual, only because I haven't posted in a while. I've just been super busy with school and work, and I honestly hadn't even glanced at my notes for almost a month, so I was a little out of practice when writing this chapter. Believe me, it didn't come easily. Let me know if you all enjoy the longer chapters, or if you prefer the shorter ones that are about half as long as this one was. Your feedback really does influence how I write the story, and I really appreciate it when I get it. Anyways, hope to be posting regularly again, and as always I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	19. Chapter 19: A Wolf in a Trap

Aela stood beside him, just as in awe and terror as he, but Thraun was shaken from his rapture when one footfall nearly collapsed the floor before him, and he watched it raise one of its enormous weapons into the air, poised to bring it down between them.

"Aela, move!" he shouted towards her, a command that came too late as the hammer-stroke fell. Both were thrust backwards through the air, and fortunately it seemed to be keeping focus on Thraun: Aela had suffered greater from the blow, but Thraun recovered quickly, and drew it away from her.

"That's right! To me, damn you! Face me!" he shouted, sword fruitlessly raised in its direction. How could steel cut...whatever _that_ was?

He maneuvered around collapsed bits of stone and between rubble, careful not to get himself cornered, while also keeping its focus away from Aela, who still lay slumped on the cold, stone floor.

The gears behind its massive chest plate began rotating faster, much faster, its gargantuan metal frame screeching to a halt. The entire centurion vibrated, and it began producing low hum which rang throughout the hall. It lowered its weapons suddenly and leaned forward, discharging a cloud of scalding hot steam upon him. Though he had sense enough to turn away and cover his head, his ears, neck, and fingers were all badly burnt. Without his shield, he could only scream through the pain.

Hew felt himself cooking inside his armor! Were it not for the thin tunic and pants he was wearing underneath, his injuries would have been far greater. He wagered he could sustain perhaps _one_ more such attack, but anymore than that would certainly kill him. He didn't have time to cower though. He didn't have time to look at his wounds or even say the word 'ouch' before it was upon him once more.

Thraun jumped behind a column, sparing himself from being crushed by its hammer-hand. He heard the distinctive 'ding' of metal on metal, and peeked from behind his shelter to see Aela back to her feet, bow in hand and arrow nocked. Gods, his woman was resilient! His relief to see her up was replaced by a surge of dismay when he realized the behemoth had found something else to try and squash. Worse yet, she was barely standing. She was gritting her teeth through the pain, but Thraun knew it was there. Gods, she was straining to even draw her bow; there was no way she could hobble away from that _thing_ forever.

Thraun plucked a bit of rubble off the floor and chucked it towards the centurion, drawing its attention back to him.

"Get the shard!" he called across the hall. "I'll distract it!" She acknowledged him with a nod, and Thraun moved in to face their foe. He rushed in between its legs, striking at the gears there. He knew his sword would be ruined, but in defense of his life, he reasoned one ruined blade was worth it. He battered them again and again, moving deftly between its metal legs, careful not to be flattened beneath them. So long as it couldn't see him, it couldn't steam him. Or worse, crush him beneath its hammer.

"I've got it!" Aela shouted. Thraun fled immediately in her direction, the automaton regaining sight of him. It spewed one final bout of steam towards them, piping hot vapors splattering against their backsides as they escaped the cavern together. They had no idea where the tunnel would take them, but surely it was safer than where they were leaving.

At its end they saw a waterfall passing over their exit. They never stopped running, leaping through the water and emerging in the pool of the first chamber, the legs of the spider's corpse dangling limply on the bridge over the waters.

"Do you still have it?" Thraun asked Aela as they made their way to the edge of the pool.

She looked down to her hand, dripping red. She'd been holding it so hard that it had sliced her palm right open.

"Aye, I have it," she responded.

"Good. When we get back, I'm gonna shove it up Stennar's arse," Thraun huffed. "The fuck was he thinking sending us into that?"

"He couldn't've known, Thraun. When we get back to Jorrvaskr, don't give him any grief," she pleaded. "We got what we needed, and we're still in one piece."

Thraun gritted his teeth, "He knew what could've happened, and he sent us anyway. Even Kodlak...without any warning!"

"They did warn us," Aela argued. "Why does this bother you so much? Do you think being a Companion isn't a perilous duty? You know better than that!"

"It's not my life I'm worried about. We both know how little regard I have for myself. But if you had gone into that cavern alone, you wouldn't have made it.

"You think I couldn't handle it?" she asked, outraged by his apparent doubt.

"No, you're not listening to me. _I_ wouldn't be able to take it! I thank the almighty nine that I was there, but my mind lingers on what might have happened if I wasn't. If I hadn't returned precisely when I had, I would never have been sent with you, but you still would've gone. And you would have died, alone in some wet, dark cave. But for what? A fragment of an ages-old weapon that I couldn't give two shits about."

"Thraun!" Aela shouted, trying to interrupt him.

"You expect me to cherish some ancient relic over your life? Over the lives of _our_ friends? Piss on that!"

He took a moment to compose himself and catch his breath. The two had exited the cave by now, rejoining their horses outside. Aela was wrapping her hand and fumbling through one of her saddlebags for a pair of healing potions for the two of them.

"I told you already, I won't spend the rest of my life crawling through hellholes like that for such a meager payoff. I joined the Companions for one purpose: to learn of my father and become the best warrior I could be. But I got swept up in all the gold I was earning...with trying to gain your affections. I lost focus."

"So now I'm a distraction?" Aela barked, her face growing as red as her hair while she glowered at him. He'd backed himself into a corner now.

"No! I...dammit, you're missing the point-"

"And what's the point? That we're just a stepping stone on your great journey of vengeance? A means to an end? If you plan to leave, then by all means leave. But don't blame the Companions for any of your own fucking shortcomings." She mounted her horse, pitching one of the red-liquid-filled vials at his head.

"And if you do leave," she continued, "don't come back unless you really want to be one of us."

She kicked at her horse and took off down the mountain. Thraun grabbed the potion and leapt upon his own horse, following after her. Her words were harsh, but they came from a place of honor. He understood that the Companions were her life; he could not rip her away from them anymore than he could rip a mountain from the earth. But for him? She may have been the only thing still keeping him there after today. And if she would no longer have him, then he saw no reason why he wouldn't make for Windhelm as soon as he was able. He had learned much from Kodlak and the rest, but he suspected that Ulfric Stormcloak could speak to a side of his father that the Companions never knew.

* * *

18th Frostfall, 4E 189

Thraun had caught up to Aela just as dusk fell, and the two made camp together. But this morning she had abandoned him again. When he awoke, the fire had already been smothered and neither she nor her horse were anywhere in sight. Just as well: they didn't speak last night, and they probably wouldn't have if they rode together today.

'I wish she wouldn't do that' he thought to himself. Even for a Companion, traveling the roads of Skyrim alone is a gamble.

He'd reached the Whiterun by noon, already finding Aela's mare in her stable, munching on hay. He gave her an affectionate stroke on her muzzle as he passed, making his way up the hill and through Whiterun's gates, curtly nodding to the two guards.

"Companion," one addressed him as he passed. ' _Perhaps not,'_ Thraun thought. He wasn't holding his breath as he made his way past the now barren Gildergreen and into the mead hall he'd called home for almost a year. He was nearly bowled over as a courier dashed out the front door past him.

"Watch yourself!" Thraun called after the lad, who never even acknowledged him. Strike two on the day.

"Thraun!" Stennar greeted him with a smile when he entered. "Good to see you back in one piece, lad."

"Keep your salutes old man," Thraun deadpanned, utterly disillusioned with the elder Nord. "You got what you wanted, and nearly at the price of our lives. The next time you need someone to go trotting through a cave to retrieve some worthless trinket, do it your own damn self!"

He was nearly touching noses with Stennar now, his anger-fueled rant sparking much surprise in his kinsman, and the surrounding Companions.

"Mind yourself, Thraun," Skjor intervened, stepping between the two Nords. "You're speaking to a member of the Circle."

"And I thought no one ruled anyone in the Companions?" Thraun questioned his kinsman.

"What is the meaning of this?" Stennar asked, an expression of confusion and outrage on his face. "I won't suffer scorn from you, boy. Not until you tell me where in oblivion it's coming from."

"You mean Aela hasn't already told you? I figured she'd have tried to warn you before I arrived. A fucking Dwarven centurion stood between us and that damned axe fragment, and nearly got us both killed. Not to mention the frostbite spider and legions of Falmer we had to wade through just to get there. Aela was even poisoned for Talos' sake!"

"Is she alright?" Skjor asked, grabbing Thraun's shoulder. His question only irritated him further.

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused. "She's already here isn't she?"

"I haven't seen her," Stennar confessed, just as surprised as Thraun. "Shouldn't you know where she is?"

"She rode off before I woke, but I saw her horse in the stables. She has to be here somewhere."

"I'm telling you lad, none of us have seen her," Skjor repeated. Thraun could feel his heart nearly beating out of his chest now and his breaths quickening. Just then Kodlak came up the stairs from the living quarters, a grimmer look than usual etched on his face.

"Kodlak, did you see Aela down there?" Skjor asked, in a tone that sounded much to Thraun like panic.

"Brothers," Kodlak spoke calmly as he entered the hall, ignoring the question and making his way over to the group of warriors. "I have news from Valtheim."

* * *

Valtheim Towers, 19th Frostfall, 4E 189

Aela stirred, her eyes coming to focus on a room she did not recognize or remember entering.

"Feeling better?" a man's voice came from the corner, her eyes moving to rest on a figure sitting on a stool there. Even sitting she could tell he was a large man, perhaps even as large as she remembered Arnbjorn to be. Bald but possessing a thick, black beard, his posture was calm, hands clasped together in front him as his arms rested on his lap. His face was not angry or menacing, but it wasn't friendly either as he peered down at her. He wore a simple tunic and pants, but had a pair of imperial short-swords strapped to his waist. A brown gambeson lay on the table behind him, beside a suit of ringmail.

"You killed four of the men I sent to subdue you," he continued, not waiting for an answer to his question. "I knew it would be a challenge for them, but I didn't think it'd be _that_ much of a challenge. Bloody oafs. It's a good thing I sent six. I suppose I should thank you: eliminating the weak makes us stronger."

"What do you want?" Aela finally mustered. She tried to sit up with a grunt, but immense pressure flooded her head and her vision blurred and blackened once again, so she lay back down. She then realized her hands and feet were bound in rope.

"It's not a question of what I _want_ , lass. Rather, it's what honor demands. You can probably tell from your current state of affairs that I tend not to act within the confines of the law. Too much gold to be missed out on that way. But I digress." He had made his way over to a table beside where she lay bound, pouring himself a cup of green liquid from a large bottle. Aela noticed a dagger on the table beside where he'd been sitting. He had his back to her, seemingly focused on his drink. Her eyes darted back and forth, from blade to backside, wondering what she might do.

"If you think you can get to that dagger before I break this bottle over your head, you're mistaken," he said calmly, facing her with a cocksure grin before taking a sip of his drink and pursing his lips. "Argonian Bloodwine," he explained. "Believe me, the stuff's not easy to come by. Would you like a taste?" he offered his cup to her. "Come now, It's not often that I meet someone who's worth sharing with." She only stared at him in confusion; how stupid did he take her for?

He sighed and downed the rest of the cup's contents before pouring himself another. "I understand your misgivings, lass. But why would I have you brought all this way just to poison you, when I could just as easily have put a dagger in your heart?"

"Perhaps you still will," she responded coolly, not allowing an ounce of fear to show.

"Yes, the Red Bitch of Jorrvaskr certainly lives up to my expectations. You're a fearless one, aren't you? Bold in the face of danger, defiant in the presence of your enemy. My lady, I need not be your enemy, nor you mine. It's not you whom I wish to harm."

"Then what do you want?" Aela reiterated with frustration. His face turned very grim then, a painful memory creeping back from where he'd tried to bury it.

"Two months past I lost a son," he confessed. "As you can imagine, the pain of that loss is still very raw to me. Now if he'd slipped and fallen into the river, or had the fever take him in the night, I would have gotten over it by now. After all, people die all the time; there was always a chance my son could too. But he was taken too soon, and not by fever or some other accident. My son was murdered. Murdered by a beast." His face hardened to a scowl of disgust.

"Murder is too soft a word," he spat. "So is 'beast' for that matter. His name was Reymar, my firstborn. I sent him to lead a raiding expedition on the borders of Falreath, but he never came back. I sent another party to find them, and only a handful of them came back. They found my son's body, but that's when it attacked again, this big, black demon. It ripped my men apart, like it had my son. Tore through them like water over an anthill-none of their weapons could harm it. My man couldn't even adequately describe the horror of what he'd seen. But I knew...I knew what it had to be. I scarcely believed they existed, but every tale has its roots in truth. Twice the size of a man with claws as long as your finger, and a face like nothing he'd ever seen. A werewolf, lass."

"I knew I had no chance of tracking it down. That was until one of your own joined up with us."

She looked at him quizzically before remembering her expelled former shield-brother.

"Arnbjorn," she said. "How would he lead you to the beast that murdered your son?" He just smiled, a mirthless, hateful grin. Even let slip a light chuckle. She didn't know? How could she not?

"He's one of _them,_ lass. A werewolf." The words caught in her ears like fish in a net, the revelation darting around and repeated over and over again, thousands of times in mere moments. It couldn't be true...it mustn't be true! How could a monster like that have been living under their roof, and none of them knew? Then she remembered how he used to hunt in the night, something that made no sense to her. It was harder to see your prey in the darkness, and a torch would only scare it away. Unless you didn't need fire to see in the night, or an arrow to fly with the speed you lacked. You wouldn't need either if you could hunt like a wolf. Skjor used to hunt with him too...perhaps her captor's revelation shouldn't have been so surprising.

"You're lying," she finally croaked, her arms shaking underneath the rope. She looked at him, saw the pleasure her quivering brought him, and recomposed herself. "If one of our own was such a creature, we would know," she spoke more confidently.

"It's the truth, girl. One of my men caught him during one of his shifts, squatting over himself and groaning, his arms growing and his bones cracking. He tried to kill him, this dumb lad. He tossed him back once and told him to run, but it was too late for either of them. Arnbjorn turned and that fool rushed in. He picked my man up by the throat and heaved him over the falls like he were nothin' before darting off into the night. That's when I knew it had to have been one, what killed my son." He snarled again, pouring himself another cup and gulping it down like water.

"He was a Companion. You should have known. You should have dealt with him long before he harmed someone I cared about!" he shouted, tossing his cup onto the floor. "I want vengeance," he said, composing himself. "Honor _demands_ I have my vengeance. It'd be useless trying to find Arnbjorn, and I don't know how to draw him out. But the rest of your Companions? They'll come soon enough. All I needed was one of you. You need to be destroyed, the lot of you. How do I know the rest of you aren't just like him? To me, you're all culpable."

"So you're going to start a war with the Companions? Are you touched in the head?"

"I don't want to start a war with you. Gods no. I want to eliminate you in one fell swoop. And that starts with you." He paced over her side, gazing at her body for a moment before stroking her cheek with his finger. "You are a pretty thing," he said, a lecherous greed in his eyes.

"If you lay a hand on me, my Companions will murder you, slowly," she responded. He withdrew his finger and stood tall looking down at her.

"You're quite right, my dear. No one will harm you, I swear it. If any of my men, or women, try to hurt you or otherwise defile you, they will suffer dearly. We may be outlaws, but we're not monsters."

"You say that as if you're not currently trying to lure everyone I care about into one place so you can kill them all," she spat. She grew tired of their bandy. She wished he'd either cut her throat or leave her alone in silence. If she could just get a moment to herself, she could chew through her bonds in an hour and probably kill at least three of them before knew what was happening. But if she got her hands on a bow, they'd be done for.

"You see it how you see it," he responded evenly. "I cannot change that. I see it as ridding the province of some of the monsters that plague it. Except maybe one." He turned and looked at her with another grin. Gods they were starting to piss her off.

"If you're planning to kill us all, then why not take that knife, cut my throat and be done with it?" she asked him earnestly. "Why wait?

Now he seemed to be the one annoyed by their back-and-forth, sighing in the doorway.

"Because I am fishing my dear," he explained. "And you are the bait."

* * *

 ***A/N***

 **Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I know I said after last chapter that I would try to start posting again more frequently, but given the way things are going I wouldn't count on it. Right after I posted the last chapter I went to Australia for a couple of weeks, then I just had a busy summer and now that school's started back, all I can promise is that I will post as often as I can, given the minimal amount of time I can devote to coming up with story ideas.**

 **Anyways, thanks again to all those who've favorited/followed my story. It means a lot. Sorry again, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	20. Chapter 20: Hope and Caution

_19th Frostfall, 4E 189_

Thraun had been pacing to and fro since Kodlak shared the news with him. He couldn't believe it, until he read the letter himself, now crumpled beneath the clench of his pale white knuckles. It was poor pen, written on rough parchment that read:

 _To the ignoble bastards and faithless whores of Jorrvaskr,_

 _I Ygvir, son of Ygvun, have taken the one among you who is called the Huntress, as reparations for the wanton murder of thirteen of my men, among them my eldest son and heir to my post. The traitor and_ _fiend Arnbjorn, whom you once claimed as a valiant shield-brother, killed another of my men before fleeing into the night like a craven. But I know what he is and I know what the rest of you are. Rest assured, the entire province will know before I'm done._

 _Kodlak Whitemane, it is you to whom I am truly writing. Do not provoke me by sending any more of your dogs. I have 50 swords gathered at Valtheim, only a parcel of my martial strength, but every one of them eager to spill Ysgramor's blood. If you had been able to control your man there would be no need for bloodshed. If you obey my wishes, no harm shall come to any of your rabble._ _Come to my home under flag of truce. Come alone and unarmed, and I will give you the Red Bitch unharmed and unspoiled. Come within the fortnight, else I shall march to Jorrvaskr with my full strength and bring you a gift you will much less enjoy._

 _Do not think to engage me by force. I control the roads along the White River, from the Stony Fork to Valtheim, and i_ _t is only by my leave that you will not be harried on your journey._ _I have sentries watching from the towers day and night, and scouts report the activity of the road daily. Rest assured, I will see you before you see me. Playing your little hunter's game would be futile._

 _If you do not comply, then I have resolved to have a hunt of my own. I will sack Jorrvaskr, and put anyone who stands between us to the sword. We will slaughter everyone in the city if we must. We will burn that shitheap of a_ _mead hall to naught but ash. I will hang your corpses from a gibbet for crow food, and let the stink of your corrupted flesh be a lesson to anyone who dares challenge us. I will rape your women beneath the swaying bodies of their shield brothers, and once all of my men have had their turn, they will hang beside you._

 _Understand that there is no ransom you can pay that will change my mind, no amount of gold, drink, or women can sway me. Only your blood will do. It will either be your head who adorns my wall, or everyone's._

 _This I swear upon the swords of my men, upon the moons in the sky and the stone of my tower, and by the lives of the sons I still hold dear._

 _Signed Ygvir, Son of Ygvun, The Lord of Valtheim and Chieftain of the Silver Hand_

The whole thing was a shock. This man who hated the companions for something none of them had done to him, who had taken one of their own without warrant, who commanded fifty men and unnumbered more, was planning to kill them all. If there'd been time, Thraun would gladly have brought Ygvir Arnbjorn's head. An easy trade to make for Aela's safety, in his mind.

"It seems Arnbjorn has still found ways to trouble us after his dismissal," Skjor said gruffly. "Damn him. Damn every hair on his silver head!"

"Silver," Stennar remarked. "I've never heard of this Ygvir, nor his companions for that matter. The _Silver Hand_ he called them, a pretentious name for a band of brigands."

"Pretentious it may be, but this is a threat that cannot be ignored," Kodlak replied warily. "If this boast of 50 swords is more than cheek, we need to prepare.

"Prepare?" Thraun asked incredulously. "Prepare for what? An attack on Jorrvaskr? Did you even read the damn letter? He's all but vowed to exterminate us! Pay no mind to that bit about no harm coming to the rest of us. His _gift_ is coming sooner or later, regardless of Kodlak surrendering his head."

"Thraun you need to calm yourself," Stennar pleaded with him, as if he were willing to listen to him of all people. "Filling your mind with worry will get us nowhere."

He leered at him, face hard with anger, "Then what's your suggestion old man? Because they've made their intent perfectly clear. We can't sit around here and wait for them, and even if that were an option, there aren't enough of us to take on fifty swords and win. If you don't come up with a plan soon, I'll ride for Valtheim myself, and there isn't a thing that any of you can do to stop me."

Kodlak spoke up then, "So there aren't enough of us to beat them back, but you're going to ride to Valtheim alone? And what, kill them all yourself? Believe me Thraun, seeing Aela harmed is the last thing any of us want. But fools who rush in tend to die like fools."

Thraun huffed, running his fingers so tightly through his hair he might've pulled out a fistful. Every unanswered question beget two more. He unfurled the paper and read it again, wondering about something it said.

"What does he mean by this?" he asked, pointing to the top of the page. " _I know what he is and I know what the rest of you are."_

"I don't know," Kodlak answered quickly. His reply was sound, but his eyes were uneasy, a quality mirrored by his contemporaries. They were keeping something from him, but gods alone knew what that was, nor did he care to find out at the moment. Aela's life meant more to him than the secrets shared between a triad of greying men. Still, he would have words with Kodlak after Ygvir had been dealt with. If the brigand thought it merited a revelation to the province, it couldn't have been of little consequence.

"Then what are we going to do?" he demanded again, this time more calmly.

"What do you think we should do?" Kodlak asked him.

"I thought I'd made my feelings perfectly clear," Thraun replied sourly. "Ride out in force and crush them for what they've done."

"Gah, you think as a brute, not as a mindful warrior." Kodlak could see on Thraun's face that he was in no mood for a lesson, but he stepped in close, taking the missive from his hands. "Read the letter. Think. What does he want? What does he expect? They're often not the same thing. This is an open challenge, poorly disguised as a warning."

"Then I say we challenge him!" Thraun replied, his frustrations returning.

" _That_ is exactly what he wants," Skjor said, inferring Kodlak's meaning. "A rushing bull to charge headfirst onto his spear."

"And while we're focused on what's in front of us, we'll never see the attacks coming from behind," Stennar added.

"Aye, do you see Thraun? It takes hot headed men to win a battle, but cooler heads to plan one, and nor are they often brief affairs."

"Piss on your plans," Thraun spat through gritted teeth. "It changes nothing; she's out there, and instead of going to her aid, you'd stay in here and chat like old maids."

"Because we need time to think, lad," Skjor urged him. "For all we know this letter is completely fictitious, meant to lure us into a trap. Aela could be dead, or she could be alive and well or one of a thousand other possibilities. We need to examine what we know."

"Besides that, you had the right of it in the first place," Kodlak added. "We number just 11, not enough to take on fifty men and hope for victory."

"The two of us could throw down 50 men." Skjor boasted. "We've prevailed against worse."

"The orcs?" Kodlak asked wearily. "That was two decades ago and _we_ had the drop on them. Besides that, I don't need to remind you that Wulfharth had been there and slew more of the berserkers than either of us."

"Still these are a band of untrained brutes and thugs," Skjor persisted. "Unskilled, slow, probably haven't ever swung the weapons that hang at their sides. At least not at anyone who knew how to swing one back. They'll fall beneath our steel like the forest leaves of the Rift."

"Even after seeing forty winters, I still worry you are too reckless, Skjor," Kodlak mused. "As sure as sunrise you'd fall into Ygvir's snares."

Thraun could feel his face growing hot, flushing with red. "In case you haven't noticed, Aela is already ensnared!" he roared. "While we sit her arguing, she could be suffering gods know what at the hands of those scum. I won't wait for another second while they have her. Talk all you want, I'm going."

"I'm coming with you," Ralof declared suddenly, making his way towards the door with bow in hand and quiver on his back. It was the first time any of them had taken notice of him.

"What have you heard?" Kodak asked his younger kinsman.

"Enough to know Aela needs our help, and you lot would rather talk than act." He turned to Thraun, all seriousness. "Are there any horses in the stable to ride?"

"Aela's is free," Thraun replied grimly. "Where are the twins? I know they'll be just as eager to join in once they've been told the news."

"I thank Talos they are hunting in the plains," Stennar answered. "Even after all their years under our tutelage, they still have the foolhardy spirits of youth in them."

"I should have hoped for more foolhardy spirits in my captains," Thraun replied brusquely. "Even if their bones are as fragile as their minds." Ralof was surprised at Thraun's defiance; it seemed no one was safe from his scorn today. "Perhaps if there were we might ride off in force and retrieve our sister. Are you ready?" Thraun inquired of Ralof, who returned a nod. "Then we're leaving immediately."

"By whose leave?" Skjor asked, his tone asserting his authority over the whelps as a member of the Circle.

"The leave of my legs to carry me," Thraun replied staunchly. "They grow unruly listening to your quarrels, as do I!"

"Enough!" Kodlak boomed. "I will hear no more of this folly. I won't stop you, but I beg you, wait just one day. After that we will be sure enough of to act. You have my word, just one day's time. This time tomorrow we can be halfway there and at full strength. But if we march divided, I fear what we may lose."

"I fear what we may lose if we don't leave at this very moment," Thraun countered evenly.

Kodlak heaved a defeated sigh, "You need to act, but I need to plan. Ride east as your heart compels you. But I cannot guarantee that our help will find you before our enemies do, and understand that you may be putting Aela at even greater risk should you fail."

"If I delay here any longer, I will be regardless." He filed out the door with Ralof in tow, neither of them waiting for words. Ralof remained a shadow through the courtyard and to the stables, where he'd mounted Aela's mare and galloped after Thraun when his own destrier burst through the stable gates at haste. He kept the pace until his horse could bear it no longer, but a brisk trot was all Thraun would settle for. It would be no good for anyone if he spent his horse before the first night was through. The journey was a quiet one all the way till dusk, the click-clack of hooves on the cobbles of the road being the only accompaniment to the sounds of Whiterun valley.

Thraun was fuming for most of the ride. Their way was maddening: talk until you're blue in the face about shit that doesn't matter, regardless of what happens in the meantime. Aela was captured, couldn't they see? He was angry with Kodlak, the wise leader who would sooner lead a dialogue than a vanguard. He was angry with Skjor, who kept his head level for once rather than letting his anger rupture. He was angry that the twins were gone when he needed them the most. The Circle might not listen to him, brief as he had been in their charge, but surely they'd listen to the boys they'd fostered into men. He was angry with Stennar, who'd sent them on this fool's task in the first place. He was the reason they were out there at all, he was the reason Thraun had exploded, he was the reason Aela ran off.

And for that he was even angry with Aela. In spite of everything, he found himself angry with her too. She'd chided him on his recklessness, but then steals off without him first chance she gets. If she listened to her own counsel, she'd still be angry with him, but she'd be safe. The only person he was angrier with than Aela was himself. Gods, it was his own damn fault! She'd been alone and taken, and had gods' know what else befall her, and it was _his_ fault. If he got there too late...he dared not think it.

Ahead of him an echoing screech drew his attention to the eastern skies. From far off, Thraun glimpsed a falcon bear down upon a heedless hare. It sat for a moment, pecking at the furry morsel clutched in its long talons, cawing its victory into the air. Its celebration was short lived when only a moment later, a vixen leapt from a bush and clamped her jaws down upon its neck. A flurry of fur and feathers later, the fox was panting happily over its prize. It dragged bird and rabbit down into its burrow, one after the other, to feast on a meal that might last it a week.

Dusk fell gloomily as they rode on. There were no beautiful hues of red and orange as the sun departed behind a curtain of grey clouds. Thraun could only hope that whatever storm was brewing would hold off this night. He hadn't yet decided whether he should make camp and save his strength, or ride on through the night. Aela needed him, but she needed him strong. He brought their horses to a halt by the side of the road, and prayed what few hours of rest they might get wouldn't prove to be her undoing.

Thraun volunteered for first watch, but Ralof insisted. _I've got better eyes_ he'd said. _A bowman needs good eyes, and I've 'em._ Just as well: Thraun's were tired from the many miles, and hadn't rested since he had awoken alone two morning's past. He regretted acquiescing to Ralof after his dreams that night.

 _He was surrounded by wolves. The biggest pack he'd ever seen, more than he cared to count. Half a hundred at least. Thin and ravenous_ _mongrels the lot of them, white fangs dripping red inside bleeding maws. They circled him and gnashed their teeth; he was naked as a babe, unarmed and helpless. Suddenly one of the wolves howled, and around him some began to turn on the others and kill them. These were stronger than the rest, throwing down two at a time in spite of how the others fought. He heard the thunder of hooves rushing towards him, from his rear and at his sides. Horses, long-maned powerful destriers, galloped headlong into the pack, kicking and biting, throwing the rest of the wolves down. He glimpsed one of them limping away as the rest of his pack were trampled and killed. When the commotion was finished, the living wolves and horses withdrew together into the west._

 _As they departed, a great clangor met his ears from the sky. He felt a sudden bolt of fear himself when he heard the thundering sound, a chorus of a thousand screams it sounded to him. Though it was only one, deep and dark and old, more powerful than anything that still dwelt in the world._

 _He saw its source gliding amongst the clouds: a great winged beast flying out of the north, a thousand feet above him yet it loomed massive still. He dared not look up. Only at the ground; it was safe on the ground. But its cries grew louder, and its shadow was growing larger around him. He had no sword, he wore no armor, and he knew no magic. He did what little he could: face death with courage. He turned his head to the sky and bellowed back in defiance. The beast blew into a cloud of dust, fine as powder and black as the abyss, ripped asunder by his voice._

 _Then that cloud fell heavy upon the land, so thick and dark he could not see a thing before him, only a pale light to the west that grew brighter and brighter, blowing away the fog. Beyond that light he saw a man fighting with a sword as red as blood, a curved steel fang that parried and slashed and thrusted and hewed through a dozen men before him._

 _When that light faded, dread ensnared him once more until it arose again in the south. He saw vast forests of huge, moving trees and creatures unlike those of his homeland. The figure moved with the pointy-eared hunters through the forests, just as deftly concealed from their quarry as they, with a long spiked bow white as bone. The image fled and he was left in darkness once again._

 _Beyond the mountains farther south, where the hills gave way to deep valleys filled with plains of wheat, another stood before legions, not as an enemy, but as a commander. His voice boomed like iron on an anvil, and a clangor of glory rang out around him when he raised his sword to the sky. It gleamed like a ray of sunlight, burned so hot he could feel its brilliance from where he stood, a thousand leagues and a thousand years away it seemed._

 _And to the north he beheld the greatest of the heroes, breathing fire and spewing frost, beckoning storms at his word, demon gales of lightning and whirlwinds and torrents of rain. A great many beasts he saw in the air once more, yet even they came down at his calling, humbling themselves before him and paying him homage. Any man who rushed him was blown back into oblivion in a wave of blue light. Those he killed rose up again in fury, a thousand legions of rotting corpses glowing almost purple, and withered ancestors garbed in the spiked iron of the ancients, come back to destroy him._

 _His breaths grew cold as more and more huddled around him, but even still, in all their throngs, they could not upheave him. He heard the sound of thunder once again, the blue wave flying towards him faster than he could run, and when at last it licked against his back.._ _._

Sweat drops dotted his brow, his skin ran cold and clammy, ghostly pale even in the dead of night. The aurora flickered blue and red and green and gold in the sky, a billowing sheet before a bed of stars. Their fire had burnt low, but Ralof maintained his vigil. The horses whickered and flicked their tails about, undisturbed, the river swashed along. Judging by the placement of the moons, dawn was not far off. He had slept much too long.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep so long," Thraun chastened him.

"As quickly as you were out, I think you ought to sleep a bit longer," Ralof replied. He never looked up, but stroked his whetstone over the blade of his Skyforge axe. He'd grown fond and decently skilled in the use of axes, when he bothered to put down his bow that was.

"Still, you need rest too. Take my bedroll. I can keep watch till the dawn."

"I won't be able to sleep," he spoke grimly. His voice sounded hopeless and small, like a child's after they told their papa they'd broken a window. "Not while she's still out there. My mind is too restless for that."

Thraun knew the feeling. He wondered if his own growing dread had manifested in that dream.

"Go on," Thraun spoke up suddenly. "You can say it if you like."

"Say what?" Ralof asked. Thraun scarcely doubted that he didn't know exactly what he was alluding.

"She never should have come with me," Thraun admitted. "I should have looked after her better. You were right."

Ralof's hands ceased and dropped from the axe. "No need for that now. No one could protect Aela from her own pride. The same is true for most any Nord."

"It wasn't her pride that set her riding. It was mine. That and my anger, as well as my truth."

For the first time, Ralof looked at him. "And what truth is that?"

"I'm leaving, Ralof." he told him. He didn't feel like lying and dishonoring another of his friends. It was a scarce few he had left. "Probably as soon as this is done. I'm going to get on my horse and ride east for Windhelm. From there, gods only know."

"What's in Windhelm?"

Thraun sighed, "More I'd like to know. Kodlak told me that Ulfric Stormcloak brought my father's body back from Cyrodiil. He'll have answers where Kodlak didn't."

"About your father." Ralof grasped. He said nothing else, only plucked his whetstone back up and took to his axe again.

"Is that all you care to hear?"

"Like I said, you can't protect a Nord from his own pride," he replied coolly.

That puzzled Thraun. "You think I'm leaving for pride?"

"I don't know," his kinsman replied. His eyes moved back and forth, like he was looking at a memory in front of him. "When you came to Whiterun, the search for answers about your parents' pasts consumed you. Kodlak told you what all he knew, but I still saw that longing in your eyes. There was still something missing. Then we started training with the Companions, and we started doin' our own things. Whenever I did see you, that longing was still there. I don't think there's anything Ulfric Stormcloak can tell you that'll make it go away.

"But you'll go anyways, because that's your way. I've only known you this past year and some, but I know that about you. When you've been wronged, you don't let it go until things have been made right. My guess is that Kodlak, the Companions, Ulfric Stormcloak, they're not where your journey ends. Because from what I've heard, your father was a great warrior. And the way you talk about him, as little as you know him, there's no one in the world you want to be like more than him. And there's somethin' inside you, a tuggin', gut feelin', that's saying you _need_ to be like him. Because something's comin' like you've never faced before, and if you're not ready to face it, you'll fail.

"You need to go to Ulfric because he knows where you need to go after him. But I know where all this leads. I heard your story, I heard the burning in your voice when you told Kodlak and the rest about what happened to your family. You're going off to find the elf who killed your mother and brother and sister, as if that would bring them back. But as I've said, you've already made up your mind."

The realization in Ralof's words haunted Thraun. He'd told no one of his heart's desire, and not even Kodlak in all his wisdom had guessed his intentions.

"How do you know all that?" Thraun asked, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his voice.

"You've been dreamin' again, haven't you," more of a observation than a question. "So have I. Ever since I met you I've been havin' dreams too, and not the sort I care to talk about. They're dark things I see, Thraun. And more often than not, I don't know what to make of them."

Thraun pressed him, "What do you see?"

"Elves," Ralof said calmly. "Elves, and worse than elves. Monsters, demons, the treachery of friends, the fickleness of blood." His voice was no longer familiar; it seemed to have aged a hundred years, gravelly and slow, deep and raspy. Wherever his friend was, it was far from that campfire. His eyes grew wide, his face gaunt with fear, and just then he looked like he might weep. "Gods, Thraun, you shouldn't be alive. If you fail…" he paused abruptly, and his face grew frighteningly grim as his eyes stared dully into the flames.

"And…and what happens if I fail?" He asked his now mute friend. What in Oblivion had come over him?

"Everyone you know will die," a familiar voice answered from behind him. The old man came sauntering through the darkness, walking stick in hand and robes fluttering with each step. He came and sat on the ground beside him. When Thraun peered back across the fire, Ralof was leaned against a boulder, sleeping soundly.

"What did you do to him?" Thraun said, breathless.

"He has been allowed a glimpse into what lays in store for you, and the realm. Merely a glimpse, though it was certainly enough to overwhelm him."

"So my friends have been burdened with knowledge of my future, and not me?" Thraun replied bitterly. As often as he disagreed with the old man, he knew that none of his actions were ever senseless. "To what end?"

"You don't need to worry about that, boy. He won't remember any of what he's seen or said come morning. But you needed to understand that dark days lie before Skyrim. And as I have been forbidden to show you directly what lay in store, this was the only way I thought would convey the direness of what's to come."

"To what end?" Thraun repeated, exasperated. "When last we spoke, you swore to me that I would know what needs to be done before you left the world and went back to whatever master it is you serve. But instead I find that you've been tormenting my friends with dreams and visions that they can't hope to comprehend. If your master is so benevolent, why would he allow that? What are you? A saint? A god? One of the trickster daedra? If your purpose is to help me, then tell me the truth."

"I told you true the morning you awoke in Helgen. My master sent me to guide you. At that time, I told you I had no knowledge of your future. That was the truth then. But since my master has seen fit to reveal certain aspects to me, and it is why I disturb you now in my urgency. You have rejected my help before, but perhaps now you would be willing to heed my counsel?

"My limitations are governed by the philosophy that once someone is shown their destiny, they will either go to all lengths to fulfill it, or travel any distance to avoid it. Whatever they choose, they only ever hasten its coming. I have withheld some of what I know from you, not because you shouldn't know, but because I have not been given leave to tell you. I do not know what is right or wrong; for centuries I have been his herald, though often I have been able to discern as much from his messages as you have from mine. But my purpose has been made clear with regards to you.

"That's why I put your companion to sleep: there are things we need to discuss that he need not hear."

"Tell me," Thraun demanded.

"You must not go to Valtheim," Odin said urgently, a distinct waver catching in his throat where previously there had been none. "Many men you will kill, but another enemy will be made and a friend will be lost as well for your trouble."

Thraun gave the warning little thought before responding. "You would have me turn craven and run back to Kodlak and the rest? After I all but spat in their faces for their apathy? I truly don't know what would await me if I went back now, friend or foe."

"Yes you do, lad. Even now, your companions are riding to your aid. The bonds of honor are not so easily jilted but by a few heated words. In the very least, wait here for them. You have come far in just a day's riding, and they are traveling in greater numbers and with less haste. They should pass this way over morrow, by which time you can make your peace with them, and discuss your plans together."

"I haven't the time," Thraun argued, his angst rising now more than ever. "Aela doesn't have the time. The proper course is ahead of me, not behind. We ride with the sun and halt with the moon. I dare not rest any longer than I need to. Aela's life may depend on my pacing."

"So might yours," Odin countered. "But I see your fires are not diminished, and my words will not squelch them. Would that I could put you to sleep for a few days. Alas, I can only grieve at what will come to be."

"Or you could help me," Thraun found himself pleading. "Powers such as yours would be useful, considering..."

"Considering you're two men riding against fifty," he finished. "I cannot intervene, much as I would like to. To guide you is my mission, not to directly intervene. The gods love their little ironies: I, the one person best equipped to help you, yet am forbidden to do so."

"The gods are cruel," Thraun opined.

"They can be," Odin granted. "Aedra are not wholly evil as the Daedra, but they are certainly capable of evil. You have suffered cruelly it is true, but that was not the work of the Nine. They are righteous, and _never_ to be mocked. All things unfold as they will."

Thraun scoffed. "Young as I am, I have seen and done many things in my life worthy of condemnation. But the gods allowed them to unfold. How can I believe that the gods want to help me, when such evil is allowed to endure? When such cruelty has been borne against me? As you said, _all things unfold as they will._ "

"They willed that I come to you," he said. "All that I've done has been to help you. Surely you must see that, despite your protests. As to what you have suffered, I do not know why. What seems cruel and senseless to us, is often not how the gods intend things to be interpreted."

"Oh, well that makes it alright then," Thruan deadpanned. "I won't deny you have helped, but only in fulfilling the gods' plans for me, not my plan for myself. So who are you truly helping, me or them?" For the first time since they'd met, he seemed to have confused the old man. Though he recomposed soon enough.

"I serve the Nine above all, if that answers your question. But if it's any consolation, whatever the they have intended, I have only ever acted with your well being in mind. Please, you must believe that. It's why I insist you turn away from here. Do not go to Valtheim."

It sounded almost a plea to Thraun's ears. He had not doubts the old man's intentions were pure, but he was weary of elves, gods, and whatever else meddling in his life.

Thraun considered a moment before responding. "You seem to be aware of things unforeseen and unknown to me. So tell me then, is this to be our last meeting?"

"No," the old man replied softly and quickly.

"Then what have I to fear of the morrow?"

Odin frowned, "The unknown is to be much respected, Thraun. When the days grow dark and the nights grow darker, the people of Skyrim will look for a hero to lead them through the night. I believe that person to be you, though you seem bent on proving me otherwise."

"Then I resolve to live, to prove your faith well invested." That made the grey wanderer smile. A small smile, though kind enough to please Thraun. A passing comfort, but one he sorely needed and fiercely appreciated.

"May it be as you say," Odin replied kindly. "Now, dawn approaches and you'll want to be off soon I'm sure. I have duties as well."

"Odin, can I ask you something before you go?"

"As you wish, lad."

"My companion there...he is my closest friend in the realm. I've known him for some time now, but of all the things I'd think to call him, enlightened has never come to mind. I've told him my plans, but I never told him the reasons behind them. Yet everything he said was true." The old man looked on patiently, awaiting the promised question.

"He said he'd been having dreams too. Has he seen my fate? Does he know where I go from here, or how I get there?"

"I cannot speak to your friend's dreams. He is not in my charge, nor am I the one who sends his visions. What he's seen and what I know may be one in the same, or they might be very different. I know what the gods showed him before I put him to rest, and none of it alluded to the anger inside you."

"You know then," Thraun said, expecting a scolding from the wizened elder. "You know why I'm leaving Skyrim."

"Yes, I know. I can feel your rage, your anguish, your desire. As well I know that Kodlak has told you that vengeance and justice are not the same. That Ralof has explained your retribution will not restore your family, as if you needed that explained." He sighed and shifted on his walking stick. "I will not tell you what to do, as it makes no matter. I can only promise you that your actions will be dreadful, and they shall bear dreadful repercussions. Things you will live with for the rest of your days."

"I am going to teach Ygvir the very same lesson," Thraun retorted defiantly. Even if the old man was right, he'd come too far to turn back. Whether the stubbornness of youth or the pride of his heritage he could not say, but he'd be damned if he forsook Aela now. After all, his mother had taught him that Nords are not fair-weather friends. Even if he heeded the old man, Ralof would go on without him, loyal fool that he is, and get himself killed in the bargain.

"Mayhaps you will learn as much as you mean to teach, hm? If ever you might listen to a thing I tell you, let it be this: greet every day with a measure of hope _and_ caution, and you might just live to see the next." Neither of them said another word as he departed, vanishing into the night without a sound. Thraun kept a tireless vigil till well past dawn, deciding to allow Ralof as much sleep as he could get.

 _20th Frostfall, 4E 189_

When Ralof awoke, there was no trace of the entranced mystic who'd usurped him last night. Thraun asked him if he remembered any of their conversation, and he responded with a queer look. He remembered everything, he insisted: the talk of dreams-though he could remember nothing specific-of Aela and his intentions to leave.

"Did you dream last night," Thraun asked warily.

"Aye, but I wouldn't put much stock in it," he answered with a shrug. "I figure it's just my mind thinking about what we might have to do once we get there."

"Tell me what you saw," Thraun insisted, though he was careful not to seem demanding. Odin had assured him he would remember nothing, but he was hardly comforted by the old man's word.

"I saw us at Valtheim. I had a bow in hand, and you were fighting your way across the bridge to one of the towers. There were men already dead on the other side." Once again Odin had given Thraun cause to doubt him. It seemed whatever future he promised, something would arise to challenge him.

They did not break their fast, as they had departed Whiterun with such haste that neither of them thought to pack any food. They had the weapons at their hips and with the river all the water they could drink, but no food. Thraun cursed himself that mistake; that was something for callow youths. Something fools did, but not men ready to march to war. That was supposed to happen to others, not to him.

He tried to ignore it, to focus on the righteousness of his cause and how he and Ralof might prevail. But it was hard to see the nobility in anything on an empty stomach, and the rumblings in his belly could not be ignored. Even his horse seemed to notice, whickering after one particularly loud roll. Ralof was hungry too Thraun knew, though he would never admit it. He knew what he was getting himself into, or at least he should have known. When Thraun suggested they stop at midday to seek out some game, Ralof rebuffed the idea.

"I have seen no sign of spoor, I can't spare the arrows, and ahorse we can only be so quiet. Not quiet enough to stalk prey, nor can we afford any delays. We move forward, hungry as we are." Thraun wouldn't argue. After all, if the man with the bow wouldn't hunt, the man with the sword was like to go hungry.

Day turned to dusk quick enough, and the two made camp down the hill by the river, away from the road. Valtheim was perhaps two days ride east now, and the weight of their quest lay heavier on Thraun's heart than when they'd first set out. A day's ride on an empty belly sapped much of his strength; neither of them was volunteering for first watch that night. However, fortune smiled upon them when a rather irascible Mudcrab came clicking and snapping out of the water by their camp. Thraun couldn't recall tasting something so delicious, even if they did eat the meat raw.

Thraun had deemed it too risky to start a fire, even a small one, not while they were a stone's throw from a lair of enemies. Ygvir promised to see them coming, and Thraun was keen to delay that happening until they were too close for it to matter. What awaited them at the towers, he could only hope to find fifty freshly slaughtered corpses and an auburn-haired shield maiden standing triumphant above the dead. They would know soon enough.

They drew straws that night for first watch, and to his dismay, Ralof drew the shorter. He ascended the hill to watch for travelers on the road, and to sound the alert should anyone who seemed unfriendly make approach. Anymore it seemed, you were better off treating everyone you came across as unfriendly, and then apologize if you were wrong.

Thraun had just began to doze when Ralof's hushed holler reached his ears. _Thraun! Thraun! Someone's comin! Dammit, get your ass up here, there's someone comin!_

He jolted awake with a start, like he was falling out of a tree branch. He'd been sleeping with his hand on his sword, and unsheathed it before he understood what was happening. He glimpsed Ralof squatting behind a bush, peeking overtop the brush every now and then with an arrow nocked. Thraun rushed up beside him, hugging as low against the hill as he could while he moved, desperate not to be seen by any of Ygvir's scouts. That is, if this person even was one of his scouts.

"How many do you see?" Thraun whispered to his companion. He dared not chance a look, not when he didn't know which direction they were coming from.

"Just the one," Ralof replied quickly. "Comin out of the east. A lone person, man looks to be, drivin' a horse carriage. The wagon's covered. You think it's a trap?"

He just didn't know. One man, alone at night in a carriage; seemed like a prime target for a band of lawless brigands. Yet if Ygvir was still at Valtheim, how was it that anyone could come from that way with anything left to their name?

"I say we find out," Thraun answered. "You draw on him, and I'll cut off his rear. We'll question him, and send him on his way if he seems harmless enough. If not..." Thraun couldn't think of anything definitive. "If not, whatever we do, may the gods regard us mercifully."

"That's about far enough," Ralof said in a low voice emerging from behind their cover with the steel point of his arrow aimed at the driver's heart. He halted immediately, though Thraun saw his hands reaching for an axe resting beside him.

"I wouldn't, friend," he spoke as he snuck around and brought his sword up under his chin.

"You're no friend of mine," he spat defiantly. The driver was an older man, older even than Kodlak. "The Jarl'll have both your heads when he hears of this, I promise you." Outlaw or no, the man had more courage than sense. Brigands cared little for the Jarl's laws, and weren't apt to take lip from their victims. That's why they were brigands.

"What's your name?" Ralof questioned him as Thraun grabbed the axe away from him.

"What do you care?" the man snapped back. The gods indeed must be merciful, for if they were the sort of men he believed them to be, he'd already be bleeding from his throat.

"We need to know if you're worth killing," Thraun gave answer. If he was one of Ygvir's men, better that he thought they were as much bandits as he was.

"Hardly worth it," he said, "but I've never heard of a brigand who cared about who or where he killed."

"Mind your words, or we might start caring a little less," Ralof tried to intimidate him, though he didn't seem the least bit frightened.

"Nah, I don't think so. If you was bandits you'd have put that arrow in me soon as look at me. Your clean, groomed. Those weapons, too good to have been smithed or pilfered by common thieves." Thraun didn't like the tone he'd adopted: this man suspected more than he ought.

"We ride from Whiterun, you should know," Ralof said, quickly abandoning the ruse. "We are Companions of Jorrvaskr, on urgent business for the Jarl."

"What'd you say your name was?" Thraun interjected, not wanting to give him time to dwell on the revelation.

"Delvar, m'lords," he said quickly, the color of his voice immediately more respectful. It seemed the name of Companion had not yet been sullied by Ygvir's secrets. "I'm, erm, sorry for me harsh words. Though one wouldn't think a Companion to be draw'n their weapons on the smallfolk, unprovoked."

Ralof lowered his bow, "I apologize if we frightened you. We've heard talk of enemies along this route, and we aren't taking any chances. Even with lone riders."

"Where are you coming from, Delvar?" Thraun asked again, directly. He wanted to tell Ralof to keep silent about their undertaking, but feared that hushing him in front of the stranger would only incite more suspicions.

"Travelin' out 'o Ivarstead, milord. Headn' for Riverwood to sell me goods."

"And how is it that a merchant trader was able to glean that we weren't outlaws by our appearances alone?" Thraun asked.

"Wasn't always a merchant, milord," he replied shakily. He seemed older now; his hands were more tremulous as he held the reigns, where before they were still as stone. A man ought to be relieved to find he wasn't going to be robbed. "I stalked the woods of the Rift the better part of my youth, made a livin' from sellin' my pelts. If you were goin' t'be walking them woods alone, you'd best have keen eyes to say the least."

"So you've been past Valtheim?" Ralof all but shouted at the man in his spell of fervor.

"Not sure, milord. If you mean them two towers and the bridge across the river, aye I went by that way two nights past." They were nearer than Thraun had first believed. A carriage travels slow, so his two days would mean perhaps only a day's ride for them, give or take.

"What did you see?" Ralof insisted. "Did you see a girl there?" He was letting on too much for Thraun's comfort.

He gave them a queer look, "Beggin' your pardon m'lord, but I didn't see anyone there. N'fact, the tower seemed deserted t'me. Not so much as a candle was lit in either tower, near's I could tell." That made no sense.

"You're certain of that?" Ralof questioned warily.

"As certain as I'm not blind," he responded calmly. "Forgive me lads for askin', but why's it you're so interested that place?"

"That's our business," Thraun answered a bit more harshly than he'd intended, but he needed to act quickly before Ralof obliterated the secrecy of their mission. "Ours, and the Jarls. We have already said too much as it were. I apologize for the delay in your travels, Delvar. You may be on your way." Thraun handed him back his axe and smacked his horse on the rump, the abrupt start jarring the old man as the horse began trotting along the cobbles.

"You shouldn't be telling everyone we come across of our mission," Thraun chided his friend.

"We were getting nowhere with him, and we weren't going to kill him either. At least it got him talking."

"He could have been an emery." Thraun insisted. He wasn't sure how much he believed of the old man's story.

"He was an old man," Ralof argued. "And alone, armed with little more than a woodcutter's axe. What harm could he have done to us?"

"It's not his axe that worries me. It's his mouth. Travelers talk, and the gods alone know whether he is friend or foe. How long do you think he'd keep what we told him to himself if he came across any of Ygvir's men? Or more to the point, if he _was_ one of Ygvir's men?"

"We'll be long gone by the time he runs into anyone else this time of night," Ralof said with a shrug. "Besides, he doesn't know where we're going."

 _He does_ , Thraun thought. Whether he'd said it outright or no, Ralof had given away that much. That old man was too astute by half; Thraun misliked the whole of that meeting. Alas, there was nothing else for it: he had no proof of who he was, but Thraun couldn't disprove his tale either. Ralof was eager to ride off there and then, but Thraun managed to convince him that they'd both profit from some sleep. It would still be many hours before sunlight turned this dim grey valley to shining gold.

 _Hope and caution_ he remembered Odin's words as he drifted off himself. He hoped the old trader wasn't who he feared he was, and wondered if he should have done something more cautious than let him go.

* * *

 ***A/N***

 **So here it is. I've had this chapter done for a few days now, but I've been saving it and fine tuning it for today. One year ago today is when I first posted this story, and it's still far from being done in my mind. As always I just wanted to thank those who've read and enjoyed my story. You're the reason I keep at it.**

 **I had intended to make the chapter even longer, but I assumed you would get fatigued from reading something so long. What I cut I'd intended to segway into the next chapter, a POV from Kodlak, but ultimately I knew this chapter could serve without the extra. In the end I had to cut out about 2,000 words. Now they'll make up the first part of the next chapter, or they** **may just serve as a short one of their own. Haven't decided yet, but if I post it as it's own chapter, it'll be soon. I'm nearly to the point where I would've stopped had I kept it a part of this chapter.**

 **Now a bit of my headcanon to clear up any confusion: the Stoney Fork is the name I've given to refer to an unmarked location. It's basically where the road leading out of the hills from Riverwood and the road that travels east to White River Watch and Valtheim and west towards Whiterun converge. Also in my headcanon, that's no small amount of** **road. I'm just trying to imply that this isn't some paltry bandit gang that the Companions can mow down in an afternoon. They pose a serious threat to their safety.**

 **Anyways, thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoyed!**

 **-Harry**


	21. Chapter 21: Fools Rush In

_21st Frostfall, 4E 189_

This day had rolled over quickly. They sat their saddles revitalized from Delvar's news, and the full night's sleep they'd both gotten. Thraun had hardly begun to drift when Ralof's shout woke him the night before, and after the old trader had gone, Ralof fell asleep quicker than he meant to. Thraun was too tired to stay awake himself, and chanced slumber with his hand clasped firmly on the handle of his sword. Looking back however, Thraun thought that it had been foolish of him to do so.

But now evening had come again, only this time they could almost smell the damp stones of Valtheim in the distance, weathered gray rock splotched with lichen, faded by the eons of sun and wind and rain that had passed them over. They rode with much haste and little care, wishing that the towers would be standing around each bend.

Even though their pace had quickened, Thraun had not yet foregone all caution. Today had been perhaps his most vigilant ride of the journey, eyes always scanning the road ahead as much as his surroundings. His ears heard nothing but the _clop clop_ of their horses hooves as they went, the wind whispering through the tall grass on either side of the road, the rush of the White River over and on, flowing east faster than he dared push his horse. If Ygvir did have spies along this road, they were well concealed.

Clouds had moved in again, blocking the moons and stars alike, welcome cover by Thraun's reckoning. Towers would stand out against a skyline, even on the darkest nights. But two men could seem no more than blurs or bushes to sentries in the darkness. Thraun's stomach churned inside him as the towers came into view. What if the old trader was right? What if the brigands had taken off? What if they had taken Aela with them? If she was lost to him forever, he would never forgive himself.

They were still perhaps a mile off, but it seemed the trader had spoken true: both towers were as dark as the mountains beside them. They rode a bit closer, to where the road diverged into two, one path leading up up a steep hill to their right, the other keeping on to their destination.

"We should head up this way and scout a bit," Thraun gestured to the path leading into the mountains. It appeared to give access to a bluff overlooking the towers, and was speckled with tall pines, good cover especially in darkness. "Then we'll know whether that old man has told us true."

"You sound like the Circle," Ralof chided him. "If we were foolhardy enough to come this far, why stop here?" Thraun was furious as Ralof charged ahead of him. Experience had made him bolder, if not dumber. Perhaps it had done the same to him as well. Then he saw something glimmering off the water while Ralof galloped on oblivious. It looked to be a shooting star, twinkling orange and red as it flew. When Thraun turned to see for himself, he knew it was an arrow aflame, flying in a high arc above the valley. Gods damn that old fucking liar.

It was then Thraun turned back to the towers and noticed the shadows stalking along the bridge.

"Ralof!" he called, but it was too late to stop him. Two-dozen torches lit ablaze between the towers, and then more inside and atop them, and only then Thraun understood their folly. He was still a good bit behind when he saw two men appear before Ralof, blocking the road east. Two more flanked him from the other side of the south tower, and four more filed out from the tower itself. They were all armed; even mounted, Ralof would be hard pressed to beat them back now.

As one of them pulled Ralof off his saddle, Thraun considered charging through the crowd. He could take out most of them in a rush, help Ralof back to his horse and ride out before they knew what happened. Or he might accidentally trample Ralof in the fray, or they could pull him off his own mount and cut both their throats in the bargain. Fighting was too risky now: he would treat with them to whatever end.

Thraun rode to the crowd slowly, one hand holding the reigns steady while the other was half raised in submission. Before he was upon them he dismounted, sending his horse back into the west with a smack on its rump. Perhaps Kodlak or one of the others would encounter it on their way and would understand what it meant. He undid his sword belt and walked towards them with both hands raised. A pair of them who had torches thrust them out in his direction to get a better look at him, their weapons at the ready in their opposite hands. When he was close enough for them to grab, he threw down his sword and dagger, belt and all.

"I yield," he said, not unkindly. He could have laughed. What mercy should he expect from them? He certainly hadn't come to grant them any. Ralof was struggling as two of them tried to bind his hands. He got a knee in the groin for his trouble, and collapsed almost instantly, coiled up and coughing.

"I reckon you've met Delvar then," one of the torchbearers exclaimed with a chuckle. If Thraun were in his place, he might have thought the deception clever too.

"A pity that," Thraun said calmly. "If he'd never ridden west he might've lived longer."

"Don't play coy with us, boy" one of them spoke up. He called him boy, though he appeared to be of an age with Thraun and Ralof. "Who do you think it was that fired that signal?"

"Delvar, must've been," Thraun declared. Just as well; he'd never really expected them to swallow the lie, but he'd rather they though he was a bold fool than a clever craven. Whatever their faults, brigands always seemed to respect strength, and anyone could see just by looking at him that Thraun was strong.

"Very handsome steel you two were carrying," the one who called him boy spoke again. "Better than anything we've got."

"I can see that," Thraun replied smugly. He wanted them to believe he was arrogant. "Are those the best armaments you could steal? Cracking blades and dented shields?"

"I'd hush your mouth if I was you, milord," one mocked him. "We got your fancy skyforge blade, and soon enough we'll have a practical arsenal of 'em, once yer brothers arrive and try to save you. I'll be the first one laughing and the loudest when Ygvir cuts off your head and tosses it down for your Lord Companion. We ought' gut you right here 'n save us the trouble."

"You'll keep silent Torbern, if you want to keep your tongue," the young one spoke up again.

"You may be the boss's whelp Krev, but don't think for a moment that means I'll lick your boots or take orders from you. Keep that in mind, or one day you might find yourself no better off than these two here."

"My father has already lost his eldest son," the one called Krev retorted confidently. "But I'm his eldest now, and a better fit to lead this lot than Reymar ever was. What do you think my father would do when he finds out you've threatened his heir? Might be he takes your tongue anyways. Might be he tosses you from the top of the tower outright. How many would applaud him that, I wonder? My father I may not be, but I'll be damned if I'll suffer defiance from the likes of you. Keep that in the back of your mind before you speak to me again, else your next threat will be your last."

The man lowered his head and entered into the tower grumbling. Krev turned back to Thraun, a peculiar look marking his face.

"You came to kill us all, eh boy?" he asked. There was no anger to his tone or any hint of disgust. There seemed to be no emotion at all to his words, like he'd expected nothing less.

"We had hoped to try," Thraun responded. "To my shame I underestimated a band of brigands. Doubtless, I will not make this mistake again."

Krev smiled, "I share your doubts companion, though not for the same reasons. Take them before my father; he will decide whether we will gain a pair of hostages, or if the river will carry two fresh corpses."

Rough hands clasped Thraun's shoulders and thrust him inside. Two of them had to practically drag Ralof, still reeling and coughing from the bandit's blow. One of the torch bearers sheathed his sword and took up Thraun's gleefully. The tower was dark and smelled of wine and piss and vomit. They must've been expecting retaliation from Jorrvaskr and holed up inside, waiting to take the Companions unawares. It had worked, to some degree; Thraun hoped that the rest of his shield-siblings weren't so stupid. With Kodlak leading them, they weren't likely to fall into such a trap.

They guided him up a ramp outside the tower and threw he and Ralof down through a doorway at the base of the bridge. He saw stairs leading up to another floor above him, and one of the bandits ascended hurriedly. None of them wore much in the way armor, and most of them seemed to be carrying iron over steel. Beggars can't be choosers, Thraun wagered.

Wood creaked to Thraun's right, and where one bandit had gone upstairs, two were coming back down. If that was Ygvir, Thraun saw little of the father in the son. Where Krev was tall and lean with flowing brown hair and a comely, clean shaven face, the man who sauntered down the steps was huge and sinewy, with a big bald moon for a head, and a bush of a beard that grew thick and down past his shoulders, black but fading to gray. He must've been near fifty winters, or passed. Despite his obvious age, his arms were small boulders of muscle, his hands so large they seemed more like bear paws. He almost reminded Thraun of Kodlak, who'd aged similarly well. It was no wonder then that so many followed him; anyone who'd ever gainsaid him was probably already dead.

"Who have you brought me, son, and why would their capture require me to rise from my bed?" he asked with sleep in his voice. It was harsh and deep, gravelly like the rumblings of an avalanche. Krev stepped forward and beckoned behind Thraun and Ralof, who were shoved to their knees.

"Father," Krev said more smoothly. "These prisoners are my gift to you. Two more of Whitemane's dogs."

"How do you know they're companions?" he asked immediately, not even glancing in their direction. If he didn't believe they were companions, they'd likely be killed. If he believed they were companions, they'd likely be killed. Thraun's mind raced with the prospect of his imminent death.

"Delvar sent the signal," his son replied, almost bored. "But if you need more reassurance, look at the maker's mark on this sword and cease your doubts." He took the belt from the torchbearer and pulled Thraun's sword from its scabbard only enough to show the smallest bit of blade. There, just above the guard, Ygvir's squinting eyes inspected the mark: an eagle with outstretched wings, and the characters "GM" on its breast. The initials of Eorlund Gray-Mane, the finest smith of all nine holds.

Ygvir took the blade from his son's hands and unsheathed it, studying its edge closely in the dim moonlight. As he inspected the ripples of the steel, a haunting smile spread across his face, white teeth emerging among the greying hair. "As advanced as steel is from iron, so too is Skyforge steel from ordinary steel," he spoke, more eloquently than Thraun would have expected from a common brigand.

"What ancient magics can be wrought into metal by the coals of that smithy, none can say," he continued, "but everyone knows that Skyforge steel has earned its reputation. That smith of yours seems to know it too, if the cost of each weapon is any indication. Aye, perhaps it's the smith who works the forge who makes such fine weapons. Though if that were the case, one might think it'd be called "Gray-Mane" steel instead." Thraun thought this monologue to be passing queer. He'd never heard such talk from a bandit before; he almost seemed educated.

"We brought them here for your judgement, my chief," one spoke up suddenly. It was the same who'd threatened Krev moments earlier. "I told your boy we should gut these two and send their bodies down the river."

"If my son should require the council of a crofter's bastard, I will tell him to seek you out," Ygvir spat with disgust. "Otherwise, you'll keep your mouth shut and we'll thank you for it." Thraun heard others around sniggering; this was plainly not the first time Ygvir had rebuked the man. He turned back to face Thraun and Ralof for once, pointing the tip of his blade into Thraun's chest. "Interesting that Kodlak should receive my letter, presuming he could read it, and send you to assassinate me. You're two against fifty, and I had you spotted two days past. I warned your Harbinger as much would happen if he defied me. And now, what am I to do with you heedless lads, hm?

"Heedless, you have the right of us," Thraun admitted, downcast. He needed to be doubly cautious with these brigands. Too much flattery could be seen as cowardice, too little could be seen as pride. Either could get you killed. Thraun decided that a bit of truth would service him best, and it was the truth, but Ygvir would rue that he ever listened to what Thraun spoke next. "But it would in turn be heedless of you to kill us."

"OH!" Ygvir cackled. "Perchance you will say why?" Don't balk, Thraun. Not now.

"I yielded to you. I am your prisoner. The gods spurn men who kill their captives without cause."

"Would you have given us such a chance?" Ygvir questioned.

Torbern scoffed, "Give 'em half a chance and they'll put something good and sharp in your belly. Same way the red bitch did with Bennar."

Thruan winced at the mention of Aela, but not obviously enough for Ygvir to notice. "If you yielded, I would have you brought before the Jarl," he spoke honestly. "Your journey may end in the same place, but my way was fairer."

"Yes. Fairer, brighter, and blotted with roses as well. What sort of men do you take us for? Honest and law abiding?"

"You haven't yet killed us. If there is some honor to be found among thieves, I dare hope I've found it."

"More like I've been roused from my bed at a godless hour and my wits have not yet found me. When they do, you'll know." The brute trudged through his men to a table Thruan hadn't noticed, uncorked a green bottle, and quaffed its contents in three swallows. He sighed heavily afterwards and belched loudly, slamming the glass back down on the table. "Only a fool or a craven seeks mercy from those he means to kill." He said suddenly, his face still turned away from them so Thraun couldn't study it.

"Only a fool or a craven seeks his wits in a bottle of ale," Thraun retorted coolly.

"I agree," Ygvir replied, almost amiably. "This is Argonian Bloodwine. Too bitter to enjoy the taste, too strong for a normal man to drink a bottle's worth without collapsing. It's a drink only meant for thinking. And I think there may be some daring to you, yes."

"I've been called brave and foolish more than once," Thraun admitted. "But anyone who ever called me craven did not do so twice." Thraun worried that last had been a bit too bold, but Ygvir only laughed.

"There I have it, then. You're certainly no craven, if you take my meaning. Only a fool would have such a bold tongue in the presence of his captors."

Thraun let himself smirk and be seen doing it, "Many fools before me have lived well and lived long. I don't expect I'll be any different."

Ygvir's geniality vanished as quickly as it had appeared, "Just as many fools die young. We will see to you soon enough. Krev, you are my heir, now that my eldest true born son is lost to me. You've shown some cunning so far; that bit with Delvar may have been clever enough for these whelps, but Kodlak Whitemane is no man's fool. He can't afford to be among rabble such as this. I don't expect our scouts to bring report until overmorrow, but I have no doubt the Harbinger is drawing near. We must ready ourselves for that confrontation. That starts with the fate of these two. What do you say we should do with them?"

Krev regarded each of them briefly. There was great intensity to his gaze, brief as it was. Thraun misliked it deeply; if he had been the one who planned the signal along the road, then there was likely a good deal more guile within him. If Ygvir was the warrior, Krev was the well-honed blade he fought with.

"Much as I would relish murdering these two, I think it would be best to keep them alive for now. They may prove useful in luring Kodlak into our grasp, even more so than the red-haired whore. Once we have the Whitemane in hand, we can use our numbers and position to overwhelm whatever strength he will have mustered against us."

 _I wouldn't count on it_ , Thraun thought. Ever since he'd joined the Companions he'd heard the tale of Kodlak and Skjor's triumph over the hundred-and-one Orc berserkers from Dushnikh Yal, who more than two decades ago had begun raiding along the Reachwater River. When they began harrying the northwestern borders of Falkreath, the Jarl at the time conscripted the Companions to deal with them. Thraun's father had still been with them then, Kodlak was not yet Harbinger, and Skjor was still only a whelp. It was in remembering the tale that Thraun realized Kodlak and Skjor had once been as foolhardy as himself, though evidently they had been more adroit than he or Ralof. The three of them ventured west on the fool's errand against twice as many foes as he himself now faced, and returned heroes and legends. That had done ill in improving relations between the races of elves and men in Skyrim, yet still the feat was impressive. No one seemed more impressed than the Orcs, truthfully. Though it seemed all but Kodlak and Skjor had forgotten Wulfharth's part in their triumph; no one ever mentioned him when they told the tale. Skjor and Kodlak weren't the same men, Thraun knew that. Older and slower now to be sure, but he had fought beside the both of them and still knew there was ferocity to be found. Enough to give these fuckers a fight at the least.

"Very well," Ygvir's voice commanded. "Keep them here in the south tower for now. Make sure their hands are bound behind their backs, and set a guard on them. I don't want them chewin' through their bonds like the red bitch."

"Where is Aela?" Ralof blurted suddenly, breaking his silence and betraying his worry. Torbern smirked at that.

"He speaks," Ygvir commented.

"The redhead?" Torbern replied deviously. "Me and the lads have grown fond of havin'er around," a wicked grin grew on his face as the rest of the men began to laugh around him. Thraun didn't like what his tone suggested.

"I've been to visit her every night," he continued eagerly. "I asked her how she'd like to be taken: like a bride or like a whore? She couldn't decide so I took her both ways and more, but alas I couldn't tell which way she liked best. She moaned loud each time, so loud. Oh Companion, you ought to hear how she groans after I leave her. Perhaps tonight you may."

Thraun fumed where he knelt, but he had more sense than to engage him, for it would mean his and his companions' deaths. Ralof was not so cautious or courteous, rushing the man only to be smacked in the face with the pommel of a sword and dragged bleeding back to where he'd been.

"Don't trouble yourself over his bile," Ygvir said calmly. "He only visits her to give her supper. As it happens, I have commanded that any man who molests her will be gelded by mine own hand, their parts tossed into the river with the man to whom they belonged to follow shortly after."

"I bet you'd like to kill me," Torbern went on, ignoring his master's not-so-subtle warning.

"Neither of us would lose any sleep over it," Thraun replied. He was only staring at him with fury in his eyes. All he could do was hate him quietly, or shout obscenities at him if it pleased him, not that it would do any good. His time would come soon enough. Whenever Kodlak arrives, I will kill you with my bare hands if I must.

"Enough of this," Ygvir ordered. "I've given my commands, see to them and return to your beds or your watches. I'll have no more disturbances tonight. Torbern, since you seem to like them them so, you can take first watch over them."

"Why don't we just cut their throats?" Torbern asked, irritated at the order. "They'll just be another pair of mouths to feed." His face was reddening Thraun could tell, even in the dimness of that hall. Ygvir was not the type of man to have his orders questioned. Perhaps Torbern had gotten a sip of that bloodwine, to be running his mouth as he was.

"I've given orders to watch them and make sure they don't kill anymore of my men. I gave no orders to feed them, nor will I," Ygvir replied, more calmly than one would expect. "And the next time you think to question my command, you'll keep it to yourself if you know what's good for you."

"Your son threatened me too," Torbern spat. Where he'd started, there was no coming back from Thraun knew. "Threatened me with papa's vengeance. Well what has ever come of your threats? I'd have taken that red haired bitch the moment we captured her, but you said you'd cut our balls off if anyone touched her. I'd kill these two and laugh while I did it, but you'd rather wait and plan and hesitate. Mark my words, it'll all come back on us for ill. You've gone soft old man, as I can see it. Why should I take orders from the likes of you? Your next one might mean the death of us all."

"You condemn yourself with your own tongue, Torbern."

Ygvir lashed out at his clansman with a savage blow, and Thraun heard the crack of his nose as blood poured out in rivulets to spill onto the floor. None of the other brigands intervened, for their own well being most likely. They simply watched the scene: some turned away, some grimaced at Torbern's beating, others showed nothing at all. Krev was among the latter sort. As Torbern collapsed clutching his face, Ygvir grabbed him by the scruff of his neck with one hand. When Thraun saw his face, it looked more like someone had taken a maul to it than a fist. His nose was a ruin, his lips cracked, bloody, and swollen as well.

Torbern fought a bit less feebly against Ygvir's grasp when he realized where he was being dragged. Thraun heard no pleas for mercy, for which he was grateful. It was bad enough when men talked themselves into misfortune, but it was worse when they begged for reprieve afterwards. He'd seen it before. In an instant Torbern was there, another he wasn't; his body landed with a thud, five and twenty feet or more below the spot where Ygvir was perched.

"I may be old, but even I'm not yet as soft as those stones," he bellowed down at Torbern's mangled body. That was the last Thraun saw of the leader of the Silver Hand that night. No sooner and Torbern struck the ground than men were tripping over themselves to carry out Ygvir's last command. He and Ralof were dragged to a corner of the tower, their hands bound at the wrist behind their backs. Men and women went back to wherever they were before the two fools arrived, and Ygvir went back to sleep. A great aurochs of a woman stood guard over them that night, pacing fore and aft before them in silence. Neither of the companions found sleep that night.

"A tight spot we've found ourselves in," Thraun said lightheartedly to Ralof, who'd been sulking quietly across from him for too long.

"A tight spot I've put us in, you mean," he replied solemnly.

"You or me, it makes no matter. We're both here for the nonce," Thraun tried to be reassuring, though admittedly he could have raged at his cavalier kinsman. But he couldn't blame him either; after all, it was his own rashness that had brought them this far in the first place.

"But it need not have been that way. I'm here because I'm a hot blooded boy and a fool who rode into a trap without thinking. But you? You're here because you wouldn't abandon a friend."

Whatever else, that was the truth of it. When the torches lit across the gap, Thraun was far enough away to have made a run for it. Oh they had archers perched atop their towers, but he was a skilled rider and he doubted their aim under the scarce light of a new moon, especially from such a distance. But Ralof was his friend and wouldn't abandon him, for as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, somewhere around those towers there'd be a freshly mounted blond head on a spike. And he needed to hold on to his friends. He didn't have that many to begin with.


	22. Chapter 22: Kodlak

19th Frostfall, 4E 189

 ** _Kodlak_**

"Is it wise to let them go?" Skjor asked.

"Nothing was ever wiser," Kodlak replied. "Ygvir won't kill them, even if they beat us to Valtheim. He wants to make an example of Aela, I am certain of that. His aim is to kill us and make us look like fools all the same. They'll likely please him more than anything else."

"You're willing to risk that?" Stennar gasped incredulously. "You're willing to let them risk their lives on an instinct that they won't be harmed?"

"If you want to stop them so desperately, by all means go and stop them. Do you really think you could? No more than I. I'm not their father or their master. They need to make this choice themselves, and suffer the consequences."

Even Skjor was distraught, "Then they're right? You mean to do nothing?"

"Don't be absurd," Kodlak scoffed. "Of course we're going to fight them, but what I said earlier was true. The strength of all of Jorrvaskr is but thirteen, ten now that Thraun and Ralof have gone and Aela is captive. If Eorlund joined us with his sons, it still would not be nearly enough to oppose Ygvir with any hope of victory. We need help."

"The Companions have always dealt with their own matters," Skjor replied, staunch and stern once more. "This should be no different."

"You would sooner die for pride than live in humility? Shame Skjor, shame. Have you listened to aught I have ever said? Who did Ygvir threaten? It wasn't merely the Companions. All of Whiterun will suffer if we do nothing. Who bears the burden of Whiterun's defenses, even more so than us? Who will receive the blame, should the city fall?"

"Go to the Jarl?" Skjor questioned dubiously. "He'd sell us to the outlaws sooner than he'd waste his own men."

Kodlak frowned, "I know Balgruuf. He's young but he's a good man, and those advising him have more sense than what you suggest. I have given him counsel myself on more than one occasion. He will not abandon us, no more than he would abandon his city."

Stennar was skeptical of the suggestion as well, "Balgruuf will not like risking his personal guard."

"He will like it much more than pillaging and burning," Kodlak replied confidently. "Else he's a bigger fool than those two."

Orvar had emerged from the cavernous underbelly of Jorrvaskr, armed and ready for a bit of practice in the yard.

"What are you three conspiring about?" he asked them mischievously. None of the three said anything, and the smile fled from his face when he read the letter Kidlak gave him.

"I hadn't realized there were any lords of Valtheim towers."

"There aren't," Skjor replied. "Though perhaps there might just become one if we should fail to answer this threat."

"Should we send him a gift?" Orvar asked haughtily.

"A sword through the heart seems appropriate, don't you think?" Skjor responded.

"You know I prefer arrows to swords, Skjor. Perhaps I'll send a shaft singing through this Ygvir's eye."

"Peace both you, enough of that bluster." Kodlak commanded. He never yelled, but when he spoke other men fell silent to hear, and you were wise if you obeyed. "I've told them Orvar, and now I'll tell you: we can't hope to bring Ygvir to heel, even with all the strength of Jorrvaskr. Barring anymore slips of sense, we might just emerge victorious over these brigands. But you must heed me if we are to succeed, every one of you."

"What do you mean, ' _slip of sense'_? What's happened?"

"Ralof and Thraun have ridden for Valtheim," Stennar replied. "They mean to take this Ygvir's head."

"Or die trying," Orvar understood. "Kodlak, as ever I am with you. What will we do?"

"Make a trip to Dragonsreach for a start."

The Jarl's court was warm and uncrowded, thank the nine. His Dunmer shield-thane stood stoic as ever by his side, hand resting on the grip of her blade, ready and willing to intercept any would-be cut-throats. Though Nords and dark elves have been enemies in the past, Kodlak admired her devotion to her liege lord. Devotion that bordered on obsession and paranoia, but he did not begrudge her state of awareness to be sure.

Balgruuf sat slouched on his throne, the great skull of the dragon Numinex mounted above him, jaws agape and hungry. How such a massive thing was ever lifted and secured to the stone no one knew, but it had not moved an inch from that wall in centuries. Every true son and daughter of Skyrim knew the story of Olaf One-Eye and his scourge, that perilous winged foe. In fact, Kodlak himself had recounted the tale to Balgruuf as a lad, when his father still reigned as Lord of Whiterun. He listened eagerly then, and hopefully he would hear him just so once more.

Kodlak mused on Balgruuf's lineage. His forebears had ruled Whiterun since before even Vignarr Gray-Mane was born. Kodlak had kept close counsel with Balgruuf's father Hroand, and had on occasion spoken with his grandfather Rothgar. Though he had been merely a whelp then, men still could sense his strength and wisdom at that age. Kodlak Whitemane, only known as Kodlak in those days, did not lack for ears to hear him.

"My lord?" One of the guards spoke, the voice echoed in his ears before he heard it.

"Harbinger will do, lad. The only lord in this court sits just there, if you care to look."

"Very well. I'll present you to the Jarl now." He turned and led them past the long tables and the hearth directly before the throne. He bowed solemnly before he spoke. "My Lord, Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger of Jorrvaskr." Kodlak fell to one knee and the rest followed suit. Skjor went grumbling as ever, but complied all the same. That was fortunate.

"May the nine bless you and all your children," Kodlak said, a greeting he had much practice in saying. Since the signing of the White-Gold Concordant that number had been in dispute, but in the heart of every true Nord the ninth divine still lived. Balgruuf could never return the gesture openly, but Talos had not been forgotten by the Lord of Whiterun, he knew. As well, Balgruuf as yet had no children to speak of, but he was young, tall, and a great lord of the Province. It wouldn't be long before men and women were presenting matches.

"Rise, Kodlak, no need for such formalities. The Companions shall never grovel so long as Balgruuf the Greater rules in Dragonsreach. Besides, old as your knees are I'm sure they're throbbing in the motion!" His court roared laughter, save Irileth. Kodlak smiled good-naturedly, but frowned internally at the most recent jape about his age. Were all these youngsters in collusion?

"For your haste in seeing us, you have my thanks my Jarl. I don't know if you have been told the reason for our visit, but I assure you it is most urgent."

Where before there was glee, Balgruuf's face had turned quite stoic.

"State your business, Harbinger. I will listen."

Kodlak's visage mirrored the Jarl's, "What news I've brought is grim, my lord, and best said in a room with fewer ears to hear." Such a proclamation was a gamble, but so was what he planned to confess. Regardless, Kodlak had given Balgruuf prudent advice in the past, and he prayed that whatever faith the Jarl had invested in him would not be forsaken today.

"As you wish." The Jarl rose from his chair and commanded, "Irileth, Proventus, with me. We will talk in my solar. Hrongar, stand guard without. No one enters."

"Aye," was all that was said by the lad to the Jarl's right. He had to have been younger than Balgruuf, but was built like Farkas and kept an iron greatsword strapped to his back. The resemblance between their faces was uncanny, but beyond that the Jarl and his brother looked like strangers to each other.

Kodlak turned to his second and whispered, "Skjor, wait here with the rest. If negotiations go south, form up and consolidate our strength in Jorrvaskr. If it comes to it, lead an exodus of our shield-siblings by way of the underforge."

Skjor had never looked more troubled, "What do you mean to do, Kodlak?"

"I mean to slaughter the Companions' enemies, whomever and wherever they may be."

The one-eyed warrior's mien only grew more concerned, "Don't do anything rash," he replied.

 _Unfortunately I mean to_ , Kodlak thought. He just nodded quietly and turned to follow the Jarl's entourage upstairs. For all his chastising of Thraun and Ralof for their recklessness, was he about to do anything so different?

The Jarl's solar was a lofty place, a huge room with high arched ceilings, exposed beams, and narrow windows, thin shafts of light cascading down the wooden walls. Proventus shut the door behind them, leaving Hrongar outside.

"What is the nature of this message?" Proventus asked warily, returning to his lordship's side. Kodlak had butted heads with the Jarl's balding steward on more than one occasion, but he knew him for a decent man, as Imperials go. His daughter was apprenticing under Eorlund, and they had followed her father's lead in calling her war maiden, for her near obsession with blades and other armaments.

"Not a message Proventus, as much as it is a threat. Though dire as it is that we respond, I will not share with you its contents until I have your word that what I confess here today shall not leave this room. For all our sakes, swear to it."

"That seems an arbitrary and inconsequential provision, Harbinger," Irileth at last spoke up. "Did you come her to play games or are there serious matters for us to discuss? If so, speak on them."

Kodlak was losing patience, "Not until you swear. You must understand, at this very moment I hold the lives of my shield-siblings in my hands. What we discuss, how we act, may determine the fate of the hold in the years to come. But in this very moment, my concern is for the noble and innocent souls of Jorrvaskr, whom I am placing in peril because I choose to put my faith in your judgment. I pray I do not regret doing so. If you only swear to what I ask, I shall tell you everything."

"What in the name of Talos is going on, Kodlak?" the Jarl spoke incredulously. "You would have me blindly agree to terms, without taking the full measure of potential consequences?"

"I would have you put your faith in me, as you have so many times before. As the people of this city have done for the Companions so many times before. Have we ever failed you, my lord? Have we ever failed them?"

"I cannot make such a promise, Kodlak. Not at the risk of bringing harm to my people. Therefore speak your mind or begone, for I have many matters to see to." Irileth and Proventus mirrored their liege's sentiment.

Kodlak's heart was beating fiercely in his ears. He worried he might transform right there before them. _Talos preserve me_ , "You would do anything to protect this city. As would I. The Companions have sacrificed much in defense of Whiterun over the centuries. Just bear that in mind when I make my confession."

Kodlak held the crumpled parchment high in his hand for the three of them to see.

"I have here a letter from a brigand living in Valtheim Towers, a ruin four days east of Whiterun along the White River. This man, who names himself Ygvir, has taken one of our own captive, and threatens her execution if we do not comply with his terms." He handed the letter to Balgruuf so he might read them for himself. "I have sent two of our own ahead of me that they might scout the roads and look for any more signs of trouble." Kodlak took bitterly to lies, but he thought it might be best to adapt the truth to suit his needs. And what he needed now more than ever was for the Companions to seem indispensable for the preservation of Whiterun's security.

The young Jarl's face was difficult to read, but it was plain that he wasn't fond of the news. After a brief yet agonizing moment, he handed the letter off to Proventus and turned his back to them, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Who is this Arnbjorn?" he asked finally. "I would have him summoned to my hall for questioning." Kodlak frowned: he knew where this line of questioning would lead.

"He was one of our own, my Jarl, though this Ygvir must never have known Arnbjorn as we do. We would never have called him valiant. He was expelled from the Companions years ago."

"Why was he ousted?" Proventus asked.

"Irreconcilable differences."

"These differences being?"

"Of opinion."

The Jarl bashed his hands on his table, "Enough games, Kodlak! You brought this threat to our attention and I thank you for it, but don't waste our time. I would sooner work with you to devise a stratagem, than listen to you dodge our questions for another minute. And yet, I fear where our questions may take us."

"As do I, my lord," Kodlak replied truthfully. "But ask them and I swear by all the gods, I will not lie to you. On my honor as Harbinger, I swear it."

Balgruuf wasted no time, "This Ygvir laments the loss of a dozen and more of his men as well as his son. I do not begrudge him for that. But why would he tie you to their deaths?"

Proventus interposed, "He makes it clear that he believes this Arnbjorn fellow is the responsible party. He knows that Arnbjorn had ties to the Companions before coming into his service. It would make sense he suspected the allegiances of a newcomer, and a former Companion no less. Perhaps after Arnbjorn killed this man, Ygvir deemed him an agent of yours?"

 _A falsehood_ Kodlak desired to shout, but he held his tongue. He condemned the idea immediately. What Proventus suggsted was far more treacherous than he could stomach. He was man enough to do his own killing, not hide behind others. It was for such underhanded maneuvers that he had dismissed Arnbjorn in the first place.

Irileth disputed that notion as well, "But why then would he deduce after this one murder that Arnbjorn was responsible for the other thirteen? I do not believe it is as simple as all that, Proventus."

"I am of a mind with Irileth. If he were merely acting with Kodlak's proxy, why would Ygvir write, 'I know what he is and I know what the _rest_ of you are'? What ties these deaths to Arnbjorn and the Companions lies in that sentence. So what are you all, Kodlak, and why would it matter if the entire province knows?"

He met each of their gazes evenly. _How will they react? Will the Jarl banish us? Or will they dispense with the politics and draw their steel?_ Kodlak sighed again; he'd done his share of sighing since becoming Harbinger, but none of his breaths ever felt so heavy before now. If his words lead him to death, to Sovngarde, then so be it.

"All the members of the Circle are werewolves," he answered. "That being Stennar, Skjor, and myself, as well as Arnbjorn in his time. He must have killed one of these bandits while transformed, which led to Ygvir linking the death of his son to Arnbjorn, and by extension, the Companions. More specifically, to me. As Harbinger, I am in practice their leader. Their glory, as well as their blunders, all come back to me in some way or another. But I swear to you Aela is innocent of those crimes, nor is her blood tainted by Hircine's blessing, nor any of the rest of them. Only the four of us carry such honors."

The Jarl's ire hardly surprised him, "You look on this Daedric fashioning and call it a blessing!?"

Kodlak stiffened, "A serious bit of hypocrisy, seeing as you keep a Daedra worshiper so close. Tell me Irileth, do you still keep faith with the Reclamations? Those being, the Daedric princes Boethiah, Mephala, and Azura?"

Irileth puffed up, "I do. What of it? My gods do not create monsters of their faithful."

"A man can be as much a monster as a beast," Kodlak countered. "I ask you, do 'Webspinner' and 'Deceiver of Nations' sound like titles befit of benevolent gods? I have seen firsthand how Boethiah's faithful treat dissidents, and you would be more man than I if you held your stomach. In Morrowind the Morag Tong guild of assassins do their slaughter in appeasement of Mephala. Will you condemn us for our practices, but still maintain such a woman in your service?"

That was too much for Balgruuf, "Enough! Irileth has never given me cause to question her loyalties, Kodlak, nor have I ever considered stripping her of her right to worship the gods of her ancestors."

"And what harm has befallen your court for it? As much as has for our veneration of Hircine. That is my point: never once has there been an incident of violence committed by the Companions against your people. We are ever the city's staunchest defenders. There is a saying among our ranks, 'A Companion is loyal to two things above all: mead, and Whiterun." In the truth the saying referred specifically to Jorrvaskr, but again Kodlak deemed it wise to amend the phrasing for this occasion.

The Jarl's demeanor seemed to soften just a touch when he spoke, "I have never suspected your loyalties either, Kodlak. Nor those of any of the Companions for that matter. By Kynareth, you have given me counsel in this very chamber and more than once! Yet how can I justify putting the people of Whiterun at risk by allowing you to continue living within our walls? My own guards might string me up from the rafters at the very thought of it."

"They would die for such insolence, my Jarl," Irileth declared quickly. It was plain that the idea of revolt and Balgruuf's death unsettled her.

"Your loyalty is touching as ever Irileth," Proventus said, though his tone suggested otherwise, "but our lord speaks truly. Should word of Kodlak's condition spread, there will almost certainly be outrage. I suspect in the very least they will call for your removal from the city. But at worst...the Nords of Skyrim are a suspicious and superstitious people. There's no telling what they might do."

His words landed poorly with the Jarl, "You keep court with a Nord of Skyrim Proventus, you Imperial of Cyrodiil! Do you think me so superstitious? So easily manipulated by fear and fairy tales? Nor are my people."

Proventus hardly seemed swayed, "Perhaps not my lord, but you yourself admitted they will condemn the Companions. Many travelers have brought tales of Werewolves through our gates, none of which have serviced to make the people any more fond of them."

"You fear the feral ones, as well you should," Kodlak explained. "They are monstrous creatures who kill without thought or mercy. They have lost the ability to control their transformations, and are subject to the impulses of the beast blood. We however are disciplined in our beast forms. We do not slaughter innocents, and do our best to avoid people entirely. We hunt only wild fauna, and only at such times where denying the beast their day any longer could lead to a rampage."

"A rampage?!" Proventus repeated, aghast.

"A frenzied state, as it were. It is not so different from when a starving city might riot to be heard and fed. The beast, though a part of us, can only be restrained for so long. Either it will break free and the man will lose control, or if one's will is supreme, they may be able to suppress their power indefinitely, though such an action may lead to madness or death. But that is not the way of the Circle. To us, the beast blood is a tool for battle, little more. It heightens our senses, even in this mortal flesh, and makes us stronger and faster than humans should be capable of."

"How do you mean?" Irileth questioned.

"How many men my age do you see wandering the wilds of Skyrim as often as I do? How many men my age actively seek out battles and glory? How many men return from such exploits? These are attributes of Hircine's blessing. Those of the beast blood are no strangers to prolonged vitality. As well, my senses are far more keen than yours could ever be. I can smell your blood through your skin. I can taste your flesh without sampling a morsel. I can hear your hearts beating inside your chests. At first this constant barrage of sensations nearly drove me mad, but I have lived with the beast for so long I hardly notice anymore."

"So you say," Proventus replied skeptically. "But how are we to know that you won't end up as one of those 'feral ones'? Or that one of the others won't? For my part, I see no obligation for the Jarl to allow you to remain in the city. Were I in his shoes, the choice would be easy."

"It need not come to that," Kodlak urged. "Nay, it will not come to that. The beast and I are no longer two entities, but one in one flesh. Our minds, our souls, our hearts, are linked. That part of me does not have control, because it is not separate from me. I am just me, man and beast, in one body. _I_ have control. The same is true for the other members of the Circle. The stipulations are made clear in the blessing ceremony: should one of our own lose the ability to keep their urges in check and turn feral, the duty falls to the other members of the circle to put an end to them. That is our way."

"You would kill your own?" Balgruuf inquired.

"Only to prevent them from harming others. Innocents. Those are the only circumstances under which it is viable for one Companion to slay another."

"Then what is to stop me from deeming all the Companions an immediate threat, and order you arrested tonight and executed tomorrow?"

"Me," Kodlak answered. His meaning was so perfectly clear that Proventus retreated towards the door and Irileth reached for her sword instinctively, only to have Balgruuf stay her hand.

"Threatening the Jarl's life is treason!" the Dunmer stated raucously.

"I made no threat Irileth," he only implied it, "but you ought to know, each of you, that I will defend the Companions fiercely and with glee against _any_ foe." Kodlak knew his words might make an enemy of the Jarl and his advisors, but by the same token, they could preserve his companions' lives. If it worked, it would all be worth it. The three of them stood in silence briefly before the Jarl found his voice once more.

"Do you know what's become of Arnbjorn? Why was he removed from your ranks in the first place?"

That silver-haired ruffian had troubled Kodlak more nights than he cared to count. He had come to them rugged, and though he found kindred spirits in their halls, none of them succeeded in tapering his less honorable inclinations. Of all the Companions Kodlak had ever known, none were more prickly, more violent, or less merciful than he had been. Yet in spite of these tendencies, he had proven himself on more than one occasion that there was some virtue to be found in him. He was a warrior of great strength and cunning and was loyal to his shield siblings, harsh as he was. Such qualities were what mistakenly led Kodlak to believe he might benefit from Hircine's gift. However, the blood only seemed to inflame his unsavory traits, and he showed no interest in even attempting to control the beast within. Eventually his nature became too dangerous to keep around, and Kodlak forced him out under threat of death by his own hand. Many nights he thought, to his dismay, that he should have killed him instead of letting him go, but then he had made no transgressions against his fellow Companions, so he had no basis. All he knew was that it was just a matter of time.

"Arnbjorn was excommunicated for his recklessness," the Harbinger said in reply.

"You should have killed him," the Jarl spat, visibly frustrated. "A creature such as that wandering the wilds, unhinged and lusty, is at best dangerous. At worst…"

Kodlak frowned, "His last known haunt was Riverwood, my lord. If you commanded it, I would hunt him down and bring you his head myself. It would bring me as much peace as it would sorrow: he was my brother once, but his actions yet again jeopardize those who still dwell in Jorrvaskr. At least with his death it would be for the last time."

"I will send a detachment to Riverwood to search for him. If he complies, he may keep his head. If not, my men will bring it back to me. At the moment however, the matter of your condition weighs on my mind most significantly. What am I to do with you? Gah, if I was as clairvoyant Julianos, this decision would be so very easy."

"My Jarl," Proventus chirped from his corner isolated from danger, "might I make a suggestion?"

"Speak Proventus."

"As of now, Kodlak is not an immediate threat. It is very likely that he will never become a threat at all, but even still, the risk remains. However, Ygvir has openly threatened us. Both you and Kodlak agree that Ygvir must be dealt with, and you would rather work together to defeat him. I say you do just that: with Kodlak's tactical mind at your disposal, as well as the skilled arms of Jorrvaskr and whatever men you may provide, Ygvir and his associates should be soundly eliminated. Once so, it would be most gracious of you to grant the Companions those towers to keep for themselves. It would remove any latent risks from the city directly, while still keeping a competent fighting force garrisoned within arm's reach." A ruin for a reward? How generous.

The suggestion was more than Kodlak could stomach, "The Companions have called Jorrvaskr home for centuries. Our house is older than yours, Balgruuf, and older even than this keep. Our order was the first to look upon the Skyforge, the first to build on these hills! The ship that once belonged to Jeek of the River, the flagship of Ysgramor's fleet that ferried the first Companions to Skyrim, has kept the rain off our heads for millennia. What would you do with it after we were gone? Turn it into another barracks for the common guards of the hold? I mean them no offense, but they are by no means Companions. They could never appreciate the noble history bound in those halls."

"It might be for the best if _your_ history was forgotten," Proventus said hostilely. Kodlak glowered at the man, but Proventus held his ground with an even gaze.

"What do you make of all this, Irileth?" the Jarl asked his thane. "What would you have me do with them?" Kodlak never dreamed his fate would rest in the hands of a Dunmer.

"The Companions' presence is good for the morale of Whiterun," Irileth mused. "In times of crisis they have stood beside our men to ward off our foes, and in times of peace they remained watchful. If the Companions were forced to leave, the people would want to know why. You could certainly try to diminish their curiosity by saying they left of their own accord, but however you might decide to spin the tale, it paints you in a poor light. If you reveal the truth of their beastly nature, they will see you as inept for not having detected it sooner. If you lie, they may sense there was strife between you, and resent that you won't tell them the whole truth. If they were to swear to certain provisions, determined by your lordship, then I believe the city would profit from their tenure as or protectors. However, it would be prudent to keep their revelation amongst ourselves."

The Jarl contemplated all he had heard, his thoughts hidden behind a furrowed brow as he sat at his desk. Kodlak felt as uneasy as Irileth and Proventus looked.

"I would rather keep the Companions where I may keep an eye on them, and in turn, they might watch over my people," he said finally.

Proventus looked like he might have a conniption, "My Jarl, you cannot seriously be considering allowing them to remain here?"

Balgruuf was resolute, "They have lived this way under our very noses for centuries, and we were never the wiser. We may never have found out had Kodlak not been so desperate for our aid. I won't have it said in the years to come that Whiterun fell to a mob of outlaws because I was too proud or too craven to heed a wise man's word. Ygvir is the true enemy, and once he is defeated, I will keep a garrison in those towers composed of Whiterun men. Balgruuf men.

"Your continued sanctuary in my city comes at a price however, Harbinger. As I have said, you will continue to protect Whiterun from any harm or threat. If I should require your service in the future for any reason, you dare not refuse me. Lastly, far be it from me to mettle in the rituals of your order. But in the future, should you intend to pass on this blessing, you must first tell me whom will be transformed. You will do it outside my city walls, and not within five miles of here. If I get so much as a whiff of trouble from my people from something even resembling a werewolf, gods hear me, the Companions will suffer for it. Am I understood?"

Kodak huffed, "Perfectly so, my Jarl. I will be glad to serve." He could suffer this extortion for the time being. However, he was thankful that the Jarl rattled off his conditions so hastily. One day he would wrestle free from under the Jarl's thumb, and on that day he had no doubt that Balgruuf would threaten to reveal their secret to the people. But he evidently did not grasp that if it were to come out some years later that the Jarl knowingly harbored werewolves in his city, he would be disgraced and likely ousted from power. Kodlak would have to remind him of that if Balgruuf's reach ever exceeded his grasp.

Proventus heaved a defeated sigh, "If you do intend to let them stay my lord, then we will need to contrive something to tell the men. We can't show them this letter for a certainty, else they may suspect something is amiss as we did. Discord is the death of the solidarity. They must all have the same understanding if they are to march to victory. If it please you my Jarl, Perhaps Irileth ought march with the men on this errand, as your proxy. Her being there might keep them focused."

Irileth was aggrieved, "My place is by the Jarl's side, Proventus. Woe to any man who tries to remove me."

"Peace, both of you. I have deemed that Kodlak will have the command. Muster what strength remains in Jorrvaskr. Irileth, have the captain of my guard assemble thirty men to accompany the Companions on their journey. Tell them that Whiterun is threatened with imminent assault, and it is the Jarl's wish they ride out to confront their enemy. In the meantime, I want a double watch day and night until their return. I will draft a edict from my office, stating that Kodlak Whitemane marches under my banner with my authority on this mission. Proventus, I want a copy of Ygvir's letter revised so that the honor of the Companions does not come into question by the men. They'll need to be shown something if they are to believe this danger legitimate."

"Very well, my Lord. This Ygvir has styled himself a lord, after a fashion. While he lives, your rule would be contested. Perhaps they thought to extort the Companions for gold, and leverage control of the city into their hands, threatening wrath if we don't comply?"

"A thin cover, but a better tale to tell the men than that they march alongside wolves in human skin. So be it. Now Kodlak, let us discuss war."


	23. Chapter 23: Hope and Memory

_14th Mid Year, 4E 187_

 _It smelt of mold and must down here. He passed by shelves of dry-aged herbs and pickled meats turned rancid. Somewhere nearby there was a persistent dripping, but where he stood was dry enough. Cool certainly, but dry. Surely no one had been down here in a long time. Where was he? What scenes from a long distant past, or as yet unknown future, would he be subject to witness this time? He saw a pale light up ahead...a candle? A torch?_

 _He heard voices too. Young, children's voices. They were familiar to him...they were innocent. A young boy and younger girl were staring at the door above them, speaking to each other in hushed, frightened tones. Something was happening up there; they were hiding down here, but from whom? He had no memory of this place, but it was all too familiar._

 _He called to them, or at least he tried too. The thoughts were there, the initiative and the intent, but no sound. Not even a croak of a whisper emerged from his throat. There was something strange about his being, he noticed. He was there, but he didn't feel present. He understood he was alive, but he just felt so out of place. He was more or less a specter, a shade, able to see the world around him, but not to feel or influence it in any way. He didn't belong there._

 _"Stop crying," the boy demanded, not unkindly. "Mother says if the bad elves find us they'll hurt us. Please Avvy, you must be quiet."_

 _Avvy? No...no this must not be. He had no wish to relive this again. He had to warn them, had to save them!_

 _The girl mumbled between sobs, "They're...they're gonna kill mama, aren't they?" He didn't fully understand what he was seeing, until he heard his own muffled scream above him, and his suspicions were confirmed._

 _"Was that Thraun?" the girl asked._

 _"Quiet," the boy spat aggressively, his face marred by fear and worry. "Just keep quiet a little longer and they'll never find us." The girl resumed her sobbing. He heard two violent, thunderous cracks above him, seizing him every bit as harshly as they had all those years ago. He was just as paralyzed now as he had been then. But this was only a dream, surely?_

 _"Search the house," a woman ordered, her voice all too familiar to him. "The Nord had three children by this whore, but we've only just collected one of the wretches. Leave no stone unturned; after today Ysgramor will have no descendants to carry on his foul legacy." He never remembered hearing that, but then again a lightning bolt to the sternum will usually suffice to dull one's senses. His mother never indicated any ties to the great harbinger; if he was a descendant of Ysgramor, it was unknown to him. He heard them open the door above, their footsteps stomping all over without concern._

 _"They're gonna find us," the girl started in a panic. The boy grabbed her and held her close to him, cradling her head to his chest._

 _"Shut up," he commanded her. Yes, he agreed, be silent!_

 _"The house is small, Morrimar," the woman announced. "Surely it wouldn't take so long to find two children?"_

 _"Cunt," he heard one of them mumble under their breath._

 _"Softly, my friend," a smarmy voice replied. "You wouldn't want her to hear, else she might leave you to burn alongside the children." He could sense the panic between the two children, between the boy trying to bury his fear and be brave for his sister, the girl who's fear shown plainly._

 _"What children?" the first elf retorted. "The only child in these hills is lying out there stiff as a plank. There's no one else here."_

 _"The Commander will be furious, to have been so misled by her source. And to think the Countess had been so cooperative as well. We may never have found this place had she not come forward." Countess?_

 _"I don't think it really matters," the other insisted. "We found the woman and Wulfharth's eldest. She's dead, her husband's dead, and their son's soon to be dead. The other two are of no consequence."_

 _The pairs of footsteps trod back outside, slamming the door behind them. These next moments he recalled more vividly than anything else in his life. He heard himself above, thrashing and cursing on the ground outside. They'd cast their spells and immobilized all his body, but his lips were as free and fiery as ever._

 _"...faithless sons of whores!" he heard himself shout. They were chaining the doors above and taking their positions. Soon his house would burn. But if this vision was a true telling, could that mean...could they still be alive? "I'll kill you all for this, you hear me? I'll bleed every pointy-eared cunt in Valinor if I must!" He then heard a violent thud, and he remembered how much that kick had hurt. The girl seemed to perceive it as well, for she whimpered when she heard it and turned back to her brother._

 _"So uncivilized," one of the elf-men spat. Thraun remembered his voice as well. "This world will be better, once we've purged it of your ilk."_

 _"What shall we do with this one, Commander?" an elf asked in a servile tone. That one was ever eager to torment him, he recalled._

 _"We'll take him to our holding in the Pale Pass for interrogation. Either we will break him and he will reveal where his siblings have been hidden, or he will die."_

 _'Or the dumb cunts will toss me free,' he internally mused. If only they could see how far he'd come since...he was overcome with a surpassing grief then. He hadn't forgotten them, his mother and his siblings, but it had been a long while since he'd willfully thought of them. Seeing them now so clearly only filled him with longing and despair. But that sadness abated rapidly however, toppled by a mounting desire for vengeance. What horrible things had any of his family done to deserve this? They'd sought them out for the atrocities committed by some ancient Nord? These two were innocent as lambs! His hatred renewed, he resolved once more he would make the Thalmor remember and regret that fateful blunder!_

 _"Is it ready, then?" the Commander inquired to no one in particular._

 _"By your orders, Commander," the one called Morrimar replied. Thraun could only look on helplessly at the children's petrified faces._

 _I will never forget you._

 _"Burn it," she said coldly._

 _He endured these moments in anxious agony. Why should he have to witness the unjust butchery of his siblings? For what purpose could it serve, what lesson could be learned? What manner of punishment was this? Had he not endured enough? Had the elves so greatly spurned his body that they'd neglected to-and now returned-to ravish his mind? It was all but a husk when they finally cast him out to die._

 _What he heard then drove all courage from him. It was not the sound of a roaring blaze overhead, but a thunderous bellow echoing through the trees. A sound he'd never heard in his life, save for in his dreams. He'd heard it when he stood upon a high peak crowned with fire, and he'd heard it in another murky dream, of a mighty whirlwind soaring over mountains and forests as a burning phantom that wasted and devoured all it touched._

 _"What was that?" Morrimar asked. Thraun thought the same; he didn't remember anything after that boot in the face, but none of his elven captors ever made mention of a violent roar during his internment._

 _"It's nothing, carry on," the Commander spoke stalwartly enough. But there was a waver in her voice. Fleeting and faint though it was, he had heard it: she was afraid. When the rumble came again, there was little doubt._

 _"Take cover!" she cried, and he heard spells being cast and a noise like a cyclone came whooshing overhead, followed by a great crashing and banging, and the sounds of his enemies dying horribly._

 _"Trajan?!" his sister squealed in disbelief and horror, but his brother appeared transfixed by the goings on above. His seemed to peer through the door of the cellar itself, as he stood in seeming awe of the calamity unfolding overhead. The girl pleaded with him desperately to retreat deeper into the cellar, and Thraun would have implored the same if he could only have some impact. He could feel the scream inside his mind, the desperation and the rage that boiled there unable to surface, to be heard._

 _Suddenly the door of the cellar was blasted apart, the very stones of the foundation uprooted and destroyed in a fury of black claws and ruinous might. Peering down at them, Thraun glimpsed for the first time the dreaded, spiked face of the creature that had plagued his nightmares for months. There was nothing but evil unveiled in those piercing eyes. Red and glowing they judged and they hated, hotter than any brand or furnace they bored into him and burned his flesh, lusting for blood and death._

 _It was only his sister's terrified scream that drew him away, his gaze shifting to the two small children below, both of whom could easily have fit inside his enormous maw. He called out desperately to his brother to move away, for his sister to take cover somewhere, but neither of them heard or cared what he had to say. No, the creature snarled down at them, and his brother almost looked to be smiling back._

 _The beast clamped its jaws around his brother, devouring him whole. There was nothing Thraun could think to say, to scream, or to do. What in oblivion was happening? He felt gripped by a vice-like distress, unrelenting as the storm and cold as death. He succumbed to the throes and sank to the floor; he would simply have to watch and wait until it was over and he was gone._

 _He looked on hopelessly as his sister rose and ran towards him; the dragon studied her for a time, before abruptly piercing her through her back with its black, hooked claw._ _Thraun grimaced and looked away; this is not real, it cannot be. Her belly split open, and from the tear poured out among her entrails a babe, a boy, writhing and wailing, covered in blood. He was so small, so pure, his eyes were as blue as its mother's._

 _But then the infant began to grow, and his body changed. His_ _skin began to blacken and become scaly like a lizard's, horns grew from his heal, and his childish cry had become a terrible screech, like that of the dragon but lesser in might and sound. His fingers and toes bore claws and the stub of a tail sprouted above his buttocks. Its tongue forked like a serpent, and its mouth pooled with blood. He could not bear to look upon its black, spurred face, for most startling of all were his eyes. They had turned from blue to smoldering red, his innocent glance now a wicked scowl; their gaze felt much like the dragon's._

 _The sight of the child, this feeble imitation, seemed to enrage the beast even further, and it bellowed long and loud down at it. The infant spasmed violently before bursting into a thousand smoldering fragments-flakes of black skin that floated off with the winds. Afterward the dragon departed almost silently, and Thraun was blinded by a white light that surrounded him on all sides like the thickest fog, and his vision faded..._

* * *

 ** _Thraun_** , 28th Frostfall, 4E 189

He'd been hungry before, but he never got used to it. He might have tried resisting more staunchly, but he was only too familiar with Ygvir's treatment. Starve them, demean them however you can, beat them on occasion. He'd suffered it all before, and was beginning to drift wholly back into the unbreachable shell that preserved his body when the Thalmor took him, though nearly at the cost of his mind. But he couldn't let that happen, and he remembered why: Aela. So long as he remembered her, he would remember himself.

But the dream he had while being here...he'd pondered it very little, that he might forget it entirely. He allowed himself to feel a farce of hope, and he was deservedly bereft afterwards. What a fool he'd been, to think anything good ever came of his dreams. And this one had a stark oddity, even as his dreams went. None had ever been so horrific, so violent, so grotesque. No, interpreting it would need to wait. Now his mind was ever focused on surviving.

Ralof had adjusted poorly to their predicament. Rather than saving his strength as Thraun was, he actively fought their treatment. Thrraun recalled he did the same at first, all those years ago in that Thalmor cage. But at some point he learned if you take the slap with courtesy, eventually they'll grow tired of hitting you. He hoped they wouldn't be there so long as that.

Still, things had gotten better since their first night. Thraun had warned Ralof not to speak unless spoken to, not to openly refuse anything, and above all not to fight back. Come next morning Ralof insulted their gaoler, kicked his food away, and tried to escape at the first opportunity. They beat him harshly for his boldness: the swelling from those blows had reduced greatly, but Ralof confided he still couldn't see properly out of his left eye. Even afterwards, he remained insolent for another day, but he seemed to have resentfully learned the lesson after his second beating. It was after that instance that Ygvir himself intervened.

"You should steel that stout heart of yours, Companion," he'd said. "I promise you, staying here would be in your best interest. If you flee and you make it, I'll kill the two you leave behind. If you flee and we catch you, I'll still kill them, only I'll make you watch before I kill you too. Don't force my hand boy. You've been warned."

"Why don't you just kill us?" Thraun blurted without thinking. "What message are you so eager to send that our severed heads can't deliver?" He didn't want to die and hoped that he hadn't just given them an idea, but he was curious.

"Arnbjorn killed my son," he replied swiftly. "He was one of Kodlak Whitemane's dogs, as you are. That old fool loves his little shield-siblings like family. Before it's all over, I intend to make him know what it's like to lose someone he loves. Well, more than one. You have a purpose yet unfulfilled, little cub. Soon enough, though. Yes, very soon. You rode in like a wolf, but you will depart a lamb I'm afraid." Part of Ygvir's sanity seemed to have departed as well.

Day and night, Thraun thought of Aela. How near she was, how far they'd come to free her, only to fall so short. She was still so close, but there was nothing he could do now without putting her life at greater risk. With any luck Kodlak was on his way to relieve them, but who knew how long that might take. Gods, this whole trip was folly; his entire plan turned into a catastrophe. Or more to the point, it always was; he just couldn't see it until it was too late. Odin had warned him not to come to Valtheim, and here he was, bound and starved, beaten and shivering in a damp, stone room that served as his cell.

The nights were growing longer now, and ever colder. Thraun had never suffered a true northern winter, but he believed growing up high in the northern mountains of Cyrodiil might've bolstered his resilience to the cold. But even some winter nights in Evening Star weren't as cold as this. The winds hadn't bitten at him this badly since that long trek through the Jeralls so many months ago. He couldn't help but smirk at the irony: he'd escaped captivity only to find himself captive again. Was this to be his life's routine?

But all his thoughts fled him when the horns blew. Long and loud, a dozen trumpets it sounded to him roaring into the night. Ralof jolted awake; had they not been in tremendous peril every moment of every day, Thraun might have laughed at his state of alarm.

"Rider's approaching!" a voice rang out, and Ralof scurried to the arrow-slit for a glimpse at whoever it might've been. Had Kodlak come at last? Had he rallied a battalion to aid in their rescue?

"You see anything?" Thraun asked.

"Nothin' but moonlight on the road," Ralof replied. "Someone up top's lit some torches, but I can't see anybody."

"Gods save you fools, it's just Delvar's party," Krev barked at his men. "Have we given up on the ruse? Put those damn torches out! We'll be lucky if half of Skyrim didn't hear your alarm. Delvar! It has been some time since your last report; we had begun to worry. What news do you bring of western roads?"

"A muster of the Jarl's men have departed Whiterun," Delvar called back. Thraun's face twisted into a scowl at the thought of that deceitful wretch. "Two dozen at least, and all mounted. Savvir spotted 'em a week ago following the White River past Havjar's Roost. A pity your brother did naught to harry them along their route, despite passing so near to his post." Even Thraun could detect the suggestion in Delvar's voice.

The cunning Krev hadn't missed it either, "Two dozen you say? I imagine that means you stopped counting at two dozen, and there were likely more, all of them mounted? Tell me, what fool would engage more men than he himself has to defend his own position?"

"The sort of fool your father breeds," Ralof hollered.

"Shut up you damn fool," Thraun hissed. "What will it take for you to learn these aren't the sort of folk to run your mouth off to?"

"I've already learnt it," Ralof spat back. "I just don't care."

"Don't be so quick to defend your brother," Ygvir's unmistakable, harsh voice declared. "He should have rallied all his force and rained down volley after volley upon them. Horses spook easy enough during the day, but at night we could have scattered them far and wide."

"Are you so keen on losing sons that you can't see the folly in such maneuvers?" Krev responded to his father, indignantly. "One good rally and charge would be Havjar's undoing."

"Mind yourself, boy," Thraun heard Ygvir spit brusquely. "You won't speak to me like some underling; the command is mine until I'm dead."

"Then I'll keep my mouth shut, and soon enough you will be," Krev said venomously. It was more than Ygvir could stomach. Thraun heard a loud _thwack_ , and Ygvir barked another order. "Take my son to the North Tower. Perhaps there he can sleep off his insolence." Then Ygvir called down to his chief scout, "What else is there, Delvar? Speak it and return to your post. I'm already weary of this night."

"Only this," Delvar began, "Kodlak Whiteman is leading them."

* * *

 ***A/N***

 **Hey everyone. Sorry for the long delay in posting this chapter. Just sorta got stuck there for a while. Hope you enjoyed!**


	24. Chapter 24: Hope and Intrigue

_29th Frostfall, 4E 189_

 ** _Thraun_**

The sun was just beginning to peer through his window. They'd been devising a strategy all night in the chamber directly above him. Though his mind longed for rest, Thraun dared not sleep so long as they were still talking. Meanwhile Ralof had been quietly snoring for hours now. Neither of them could help Kodlak where they were, but he reasoned that perhaps in knowing what was to come, he could help himself and his shield-siblings. Kodlak had indeed ridden east with a detachment, and had made camp three miles west of Valtheim, or so Ygvir's scouts estimated.

"If they've made their camp so close willfully, then we must assume they don't perceive us to be a threat," Krev observed. It appeared Ygvir was more reliant upon his son's counsel than he was willing to admit. "They insult us further by ignoring your warning, and if they insult us then they do not fear us."

"I never expected them to fear us," Ygvir replied to his son curtly. "But I don't expect us to fear them either. In truth, this is what I had hoped for: for the old man of Jorrvaskr to throw all his strength at me, so that I can wipe the Companions out in a single stroke. In taking the Huntress I invited this challenge, and I seek to meet it with all _my_ strength."

"We should bring him one of their heads, so he knows how serious we are," a gruff voice remarked.

"You bring him one of their heads, and he'll send yours bobbing down the river," Ygvir replied brusquely. "No, we must be cautious. Tonight, I shall send two envoys. Krev, you will ride under flag of truce to his camp and deliver my terms to Kodlak himself."

"Terms for what?" Krev asked, dubiously.

"For his surrender, of course. Have no doubts, he will refuse them. You are merely a distraction, nothing else. Discussing terms will insult and infuriate him, and perhaps compel him to attack prematurely, though that doesn't seem likely. Whatever else, Kodlak Whitemane is measured with his actions. If the same could be said for those who follow him, they all would have lived longer."

"Who will be in the second envoy?" a woman inquired. Thraun had not heard her speak before.

"Once Krev has returned, Delvar and seven others will lead a raid. Harry their perimeter, burn their tents, frighten off their horses, and kill where it suits you. I want them to know we're alerted to their presence, but I don't want to lose too many men doing it. Lure them back here if you can, otherwise we'll meet them in open battle on the morrow. I will have archers posted on the bridge and atop the south tower to fire into their force."

"Eight men against forty?" Krev asked, perplexed. It seemed he was the only person among the council who had the balls to challenge his father. Then again, when murder seemed to be the price for even the mildest insurrection, why take the chance?

Ygvir sighed, "When will you learn boy, that I'm not a fool? Eight from Valtheim will attack from the east, while your brother leads a sortie from the west. When Delvar brought word last night, I sent his second on ahead with my command for your brother. They don't seem to have discovered our spies maneuvering around them, or perhaps if they have they've simply ignored them in their hubris. In any case, I've given Havjar this chance to make up for his previous blunder. For his own sake, he won't disappoint me again. With any luck they will simply take the old man by surprise and defeat him, saving us the trouble of bargaining with the fools we mean to kill anyways."

"Dorea, send word to the other outposts. I want every man under my banner, rallied here in one week's time. Defeating the Jarl's envoy will surely provoke further conflict. Therefore our only salvation lies in preemptive attacks against Whiterun. With all our strength, and with the Jarl's favored defenders conveniently dead, we can catch the city by surprise and take it in a night." A murmur went through his council, though Ygvir seemed to ignore it.

"Go give my command to Delvar," Ygvir continued. "I want you to scout their camp for the rest of the day, but stay back: see what you can see, act with caution, and do nothing until nightfall. For the Silver Hand!"

"For the Silver Hand!" the voices replied in a united, raucous chant, and Thraun feigned sleep as they descended down the stairs and out of his prison chamber, the south tower where they'd been keeping him. His false rest was interrupted by a stiff kick in his thigh. Thraun opened his eyes to see Ygvir looming over him.

"Rise, Companion. Come with me." Two of his underlings took Thraun's arms roughly in hand, hoisting him onto his feet and pushing him towards the door. Ralof stirred at the commotion, and rose in defiance.

"Try anything and he dies," Ygvir said calmly. He didn't need to draw his steel for Ralof to know how sincere the threat was. He sat down meekly, and Thraun gave him a last look of reassurance before he was forced out the door.

"Where are you taking me?" Thraun asked as calmly as he could. The two men holding him thrust him into a chair at the bottom of the tower, and one bound his hands together while the other gagged him.

"To see old friends," Ygvir at last replied before slipping a sack over his head.

* * *

 _ **Kodlak**_

Their enemy was aware of him, he knew. Good. Orvar had spotted their scouts yesterday afternoon, though Kodlak forbade him or anyone else from interfering with their scheme. Ygvir verily showed his entire hand, and Kodlak meant to profit from that err.

"So long as they continue believing they have the advantage, we will maintain our own," he told them. "I don't want to prevent a conflict; I want to prevent a conflict that doesn't go exactly as we dictate." He had been devising a trap for them ever since he'd first read Ygvir's letter.

They had departed Whiterun on the 20th of Frostfall, after a night of feasting in the Jarl's palace. Balgruuf wanted to send his men off merrily, and Kodlak was in no position to object. The Circle made an appearance as representative for the Companions, but Kodlak wasn't keen to waste time with frivolity. He'd sent his remaining shield siblings, Orvar, Gazok, Komas, Sigurn, and Taluru, on a scouting mission along the White River to see if there was any truth to Ygvir's boast. Three days later they regrouped on the hilltop above Graywinter Watch, opting to keep their horses within the cave itself while guards were posted around the Ritual Stone above. As hoped, camping so near to Ygvir's base had frustrated him, and Orvar reported that their foe appeared to be mobilizing.

Indeed, the comings and goings of Ygvir's spies were never far from Kodlak's ear. Ygvir truly had established himself along the White River, just as he'd stated. However, they were never once harried along their journey. Orvar could be quick as a cat and soft as a shadow, seeing what others would try to hide without ever being noticed himself, a gift he attributed to his time spent in Valenwood. He had discovered the garrison at White River Watch, two dozen strong at least. Despite their display of strength in passing, Kodlak's own spectacle had them outmatched. Only a fool would have engaged a force of forty mounts, unless of course they had forty or more themselves. After they had passed, Kodlak kept a watchful eye on the rear of their company, just in case those bandits got it in their head that a flanking move was a good idea. Fortunately, they had not been harassed as yet.

Vignar and Eorlund had agreed to remain behind and watch over Jorrvaskr while they were away. Eorlund's sons were insistent upon helping him, but Kodlak needed them to help protect the city should they fail in their endeavor. Reluctantly, they complied with his and their father's wishes. Most fortunate; the Harbinger had been having difficulty influencing the young among him of late.

Balgruuf was pleasantly more helpful than Kodlak had expected as well. It was his idea to carry the banner of Whiterun with them as they rode, as a means of conveying to Ygvir and anyone who followed him that the Jarl was aware of his vengeful mission. Perhaps it was the sight of it that stayed the bandits' hand at White River Watch. It was Kodlak's hope that such a warning would be enough to ward off the forthcoming conflict as well, but admittedly he considered it a fool's hope.

"When a man gets half a mind to do something, there's little that can stop him," Stennar had remarked on their ride. That was true enough; it had been Stennar's determination in collecting the fragments of Wuuthrad that provided Ygvir with the opportunity to capture Aela. It had been Thraun's reckless desire for vengeance and Aela's safe return that compelled him to attack Ygvir. It was Ralof's loyalty to Thraun and to Aela that drove him to accompany his friend on his fool's errand. It was Arnbjorn's arrogant, violent inclinations that set Ygvir off in the first place. But it was his own unwillingness to do what was necessary that had truly gathered them all to this very moment. He had vowed that if he ever found Arnbjorn again, he would not make the same mistake twice.

"I'm restless, Kodlak," Vilkas said as he entered the old man's tent to sit across from him, shaking him out of his thought. The Jarl had been kind enough to provide these quarters for them in addition to the horses. Kodlak had never seen the boy so visibly strained, even after the most taxing of training sessions.

"What troubles you, lad," Kodlak asked, though he had never posed a more bootless question. He knew it was either the forthcoming battle or the fate of his shield siblings that vexed him so fiercely, or a combination of both.

"It's Stennar," Vilkas replied.

"Stennar?"

"He is not himself," Vilkas began to explain. "Or rather, he is more like himself than he ought to be, I suppose. He's always been obsessive of our archives and history, but he seems unusually distracted by the fragments. The others have noticed as well, and I think it's starting to bother them."

"Get to the heart of it," Kodlak pressed.

"You would think he would be just as anxious as the rest of us. Our shield siblings could be dead for all we know."

"Don't think that."

"How can I not? I'm worried for them Kodlak, for all of them. For all of _us_ , truly. But Stennar most especially; his focus isn't where it should be. If he fights tomorrow, if things start to go badly, he won't make it. He's no warrior."

Stennar's own words suddenly rang in Kodlak's head. _When a man gets half a mind to do something, there's little that can stop him_. He wondered if there was some other reason he'd come, besides the rescuing of his shield siblings. Vilkas was right: Stennar was no warrior, and no one knew that better than Stennar himself. He was younger than Kodlak, but despite that he had aged twice as poorly. Even with the benefits of the beast blood, time seemed to have outstripped him. He hadn't gone on a job in years, preferring his books and maps to the outside world. In fact, Kodlak couldn't even recall the last time Stennar had even left the city.

"Until you see their corpses they're living and well, you understand?" Kodlak reassured Vilkas. "We don't know, we _can't_ know, until we've seen them. But either way, whether they are alive or dead, we will meet them in Sovngarde all the same. Be it tonight, tomorrow, or any day hence, we will fight will we not? Whether we rescue them or avenge them, _I_ will fight. What say you?"

"Aye."

Kodlak smiled and clasped the boy's shoulder. He'd known the twins since they were small boys. Gods, he'd practically raised them; they were as close as he could ever come to having children of his own. Seeing Vilkas share such concern over his shield siblings, and his mentors, often tempted Kodlak to wonder if he might make a capable harbinger someday.

"I'll speak to Stennar when this is all over," he said. "If he wants to find the fragments so desperately, he can bloody well look for them himself. From here on out, no one will take those jobs unless it is their explicit desire. The Companions have come this far without them, why bother with them now?" Vilkas seemed contented by his words, and Kodlak followed him out into their camp.

Things were getting tense out here, Kodlak could see. He needed to find Stennar sooner rather than later; a person was most on edge before a battle, and even the slightest thing could have men drawing swords on each other. He was pleased however to see his own shield-siblings doing their best to keep the mood light. They had been in so many fights even the least of them could jest and be merry before a coming bout. Farkas and Skjor sat talking with the young captain of the guard and a few others, Komas was having a time throwing around any of the Jarl's men who were willing to challenge him, Gazok and Sigurn were likely fucking in one of the tents, and Taluru would be meditating as she did before every job. Orvar- _keen-eye_ as the Jarl's men had taken to calling him-was perched atop the ritual stone with a few other sentries, keeping a watch on the road, both east and west.

"Riders! Riders!" he bellowed suddenly, and the focus of the entire camp shifted. Every man found their weapon as quickly as they could: the sentries were all armed with bows, and had them drawn on the target in half a heartbeat. Every one of the Jarl's soldiers carried a shield as standard, bearing the Jarl's sigil, though some had drawn swords, others axes, and still others maces. The twins had taken the lead along the road, swords drawn and raised towards the approaching riders.

"Some of Ygvir's men?" Skjor asked, taking his old friend's side.

"We'll see," Kodlak replied.

Two horses were approaching from the east, one tethered to the other by a long rope held in hand of the foremost rider. While one hand grasped the rope and his own reins, the other held a large white flag attached to a spear. Whoever rode the other horse, Kodlak couldn't tell: their head had been covered with a sack, and their hands were bound to the horn of the saddle. They stopped just short of Vilkas and Farkas, who had moved to block the road westward.

"Who are you?" Farkas inquired. By now Skjor and Kodlak had caught up to where the twins were, though Skjor's sword was still firmly sheathed, and Kodlak had left his own weapon behind altogether. The rider smirked and dismounted casually, ignoring their hostilities.

"Don't try anything stranger," Vilkas warned, pointing his sword at the interloper's heart. "Answer my brother's question, and if we like your answer we'll let you pass."

"Are all Companions as dull as this one?" the young man said, addressing Kodlak when he spoke. Vilkas looked ready to chop his head off.

"You are one of Ygvir's?" Kodlak responded.

"One of many," he replied coolly. "A sparkling finger on his newly-forged Silver Hand. Though a child is less easily replaced than a grunt. My name is Krev good sirs, and I am Ygvir's son. One of the few he's got left, thanks to your man."

Kodlak bristled, "Your brother didn't perish on my orders, nor was he slain by any man I call friend. Arnbjorn was exiled from Jorrvaskr many months ago. I have no affiliation with him, nor he with us."

Krev heaved a sigh, "In any case, you bear responsibility in my father's eyes. So here we are."

"Indeed." Kodlak reached into his belt and withdrew a letter, the wax seal bearing the Jarl's mark was unbroken. "This was written for your father by the Jarl himself, but considering how things have transpired, you may as well be the first to read it."

Krev took the parcel from the Harbinger, and read the Jarl's message aloud:

 _To the Lord of Valtheim,_

 _You will die in those ruins you've claimed for a keep, forgotten and accursed. Should you prevail over the force I've sen't to retrieve your head, if they do not return to Whiterun within the fortnight, you will have started a war you cannot win._

 _Signed Balgruuf the Greater, Lord of Dragonsreach, and sole sovereign of Whiterun Hold._

"The Jarl's words," Kodlak stated. "You ought to know how sincere he means them. After all, he sent us."

"A feat of your cunning, no doubt," Krev spoke obsequiously.

"Perhaps we ought to come to some sort of arrangement. This needn't go any further than it already has."

"Aye, but it will. Not by either of our whims of course. The smart man avoids a conflict, if he can help it."

"The companions have been seeking out conflict for centuries," Skjor remarked. "Seeking them out, and emerging victorious. Why should this be any different?"

Krev began to clap, "No doubt you've incurred a number of victories in your turn. Over rabbles of desperate farm boys turned brigand? Worthy foes all of them, I'm sure. Would you like your cock sucked to reward your many great feats and noble deeds? If so, I know of a certain auburn-haired lass who should prove equal to the task." A muffled scream of outrage came from the masked man behind them after Krev's remark.

"Well, I never said _you_ were the smart man," Krev continued, acknowledging his prisoner. "Nor is the Lord of the Silver Hand, by my reckoning. And while we're on the subject of botched conflicts, was your pet's little assault on our garrison inspired by you as well?"

"Do you think I would have lived this long contriving dumb-as-horse-shit plans like those? I might have done once or twice, but they were enough to teach me. I pray those two learn from their mistakes as I did."

Krev smirked menacingly, "But my dear Harbinger, what makes you think they are even still alive?"

"Cease your babbling, cub. If you've killed them you've lost all leverage, and I would cave your skull in without a second thought. So tell me true, how fare my shield siblings?"

"See for yourself," Krev replied, all the color gone from his voice. He approached the other rider, cut his hands free, and yanked him furiously from the saddle. The man hit the ground hard, and they heard a muffled groan from beneath the sack. Krev hoisted him up and unveiled his prisoner.

"Thraun!" Farkas cried and advanced toward his shield brother, provoking Krev to put the dagger to his throat. Though gagged, Thraun's eyes screamed _'stay back you fool'_.

"Kill him, you're a dead man," Skjor spat venomously.

"I rode here under flag of truce, Companion. I kill him, you kill me, my father kills your friends still imprisoned at our holdings, and then both sides slaughter one another. Ididn't come here to incite hostilities. I came to forestall them, or at the least, assuage them. Shall we bargain?"

"What do you want?" Kodlak asked, his tone marked with restrained intensity.

"I just want to survive," Krev removed the knife from Thraun's throat and steadied himself behind him.

"You've rather a large mouth for someone who wants to make it in this world," Vilkas spat.

"My _large mouth_ is my greatest asset," Krev responded keenly.

"All your father's men think so too," Farkas replied with a smirk. Skjor and Vilkas made no attempts to hide their amusement, but Kodlak had little trouble keeping a straight face. Krev turned as red as the setting sun, his knuckles growing white around the handle of his weapon.

"And how do you plan on surviving?" Kodlak asked, hoping to pacify Krev's obvious and swelling anger before these negotiations went further awry.

Krev cleared his throat, "My father is a fool; his reach has exceeded his grasp before, but this is something else entirely. A war with Whiterun will only mean our destruction. We've only survived this long by avoiding such conflicts, but pursuing this present course will mean our downfall, or near enough to it that we could never recover. That is his plan…but this is mine." He brought the thin stiletto up and deftly slashed the bonds around Thraun's wrist. Krev forced Thraun forward when he was too dazed to move himself.

"There is a party coming after I leave, and they mean you harm," he continued. "They will scatter your horses if they can, and set fire to whatever they are able. I don't know their plan myself, but I am willing to bet that the archers among them will post up on the southeast hill over there. While you're distracted by their arrows, the others will try to frighten off your horses."

"How many?" Kodlak asked him, skepticism to his tone.

"At least eight. They will wait for nightfall before their attack."

"Eight?" Skjor scoffed. "Against forty?"

Krev shrugged, "My father wants to lure you into a trap, but he doesn't want to lose a large portion of his force in doing so. This, he believed, accomplishes both."

Thraun pulled the gag out of his mouth. "Why are you telling them this?" he asked incredulously, still wary of whatever Krev's endgame was. He didn't know Thraun was aware of their companion force attacking from the west, which meant he was still hiding some of his true intentions from them. He was more cunning than he let on, and he let on quite a bit.

"We are gamblers Thraun, you and I. You gambled that you could take out my father's Garrison at Valtheim, and lost. I'm making a gamble of my own now. When I leave here I am returning to the towers. The next time we see each other, pray recall this encounter won't you? Though I doubt it'll do me any good."

* * *

 ***A/N***

 **Hello readers. I'd like to take this time and thank everyone who's stuck with the story despite the long wait between chapters. It's been a very busy past few months. I know how frustrating it can be when our favorite stories take weeks and weeks (months in my case) to update, and I appreciate everyone's patience.**

 **Also, I want to announce a new story I've been writing, in collaboration with another user here on the site. It's called _The Dragon of Daenia,_ and is a GOT inspired fanfic that follows a Breton Dragonborn named Robert "Hammerhand" Blackmane (heavily modeled after Bobby B himself), and his story both prior to and during the events of Skyrim. The prologue has been posted, and the second chapter is well underway. If you think it might interest you, please check it out and let me know what you think. **

**-Harry**


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